


Faith of Angels

by FromAshesAndStone



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort, I Will Go Down With This Ship, Jon Snow Knows Something, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Queen Sansa, Slow Burn, Ten Years Later
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-01
Updated: 2019-08-24
Packaged: 2020-04-06 01:02:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 21,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19052092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FromAshesAndStone/pseuds/FromAshesAndStone
Summary: Canon compliant, 10 years after the events of 8x06. Jon has weathered many years, often in solitude, beyond the wall. Sansa has labored tirelessly to rebuild the North as its Queen. Their paths are destined to cross again, but will it be for solace and comfort? Rating is for future chapters. Be warned: the burn may be slow. Chapter 17 is up!





	1. Jon

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This is a Jonsa fic. If that kind of thing doesn't butter your toast, there's no need to read further. This story is canon compliant and occurs about 10 years after the events of Season 8, Ep 6. Rating is for future chapters. The POV will switch between Jon and Sansa.
> 
> This is also my first time writing fanfiction in many years, so please bear that in mind. I may be a little rusty. I'm a teacher on summer break, so I hope to have this finished by August. Updates should be regular.

Jon

Jon Snow starts awake, breathing in cold air so deeply that it makes his chest hurt. Although it has been years since he was stabbed by his traitorous brothers of the Night’s Watch, at times Jon finds himself suddenly awoken by his own gasping breaths, as if death has discovered him again in the darkness of his sleep and has decided to drag his body back under. 

His lungs burn and his heart jumps as they remember their familiar patterns. This doesn't happen often, but always seems to predestine a turn in Jon’s path. It was an abruptly spinning compass at times when he believed himself following true north, and it always left him feeling unnerved. If only he’d had this foresight years ago, when he’d first left Winterfell for Dragonstone...

A crow screams in the distance, breaking Jon from his thoughts. He looks at his surroundings; the fire had banked while he slept. Trees creak in the wind and fresh snow glitters as the sun rises for the new day. Ghost is huddled up next to him, breathing heavily. Spring had finally returned to Westeros with the demise of the Night King, but this far North the nights could still be harsh and the ground was often still covered in snow. 

Jon could feel the bitter wind in his bones, and sometimes he thought maybe he was made of it; maybe he’d been knit together with ice and stone. Maybe he was a wight. Or a walker. Sometimes he thought the numb under his skin wasn’t just from the cold.

Jon heads back home after many weeks in the wilderness. The surviving free folk clan had made a home several miles north of the broken wall, and named Tormund Giantsbane King-Beyond-The-Wall. Battered and weary though they were, the free folk lived hundreds of years there before, and soon they rebuilt their lives on the wild and barren land. 

Tormund’s first action as king had been to appoint Jon as Head of the Council of Former Crows, of which he was the sole member. Tormund had laughed heartily at his own good-natured jibe, but he was slightly surprised when Jon actually accepted. As the “Head Crow” he had many duties, but the one he performed now was his preferred. 

The Land of Always Winter had many secrets, and Jon would often go on these scouting trips hoping to discover something, anything out there. Each time he went farther, and each time he thought he could feel more of himself being lost to the bleak horizon. 

He was entirely too indifferent to that idea. 

Out there he wasn’t the Queenslayer, or Aegon Targaryen, or even Jon Snow. Out there he was just a body breathing in and out over and over, a small dark spot against the white expanse. 

Tormund never wanted him to go alone, but he’d acquiesced his friend’s request as long as Jon took Ghost with him. So the pair trekked across the frozen land together, eventually returning home with few stories and even fewer accolades. Often he’d slip back into his tent at night with nary a free folk the wiser. Jon had learned how to be quiet, and they had become much more lax with their security since the fall of the Night King and his army of the dead. The rest of Westeros was content to leave the Wildlings to their frozen north. 

Sometimes Tormund receives ravens with news from the Queen in the North and King of Westeros. At first they were addressed to Jon himself, but when no ravens returned with a reply, the sender stopped penning their messages to him. Jon never reads the missives, but he hears talk. The Six Kingdoms are doing well. Bran the Broken is a good king. The North is prosperous under its queen’s reign. 

Jon can’t be part of that life anymore. It was better for everyone if he faded into nothing; he couldn’t hurt anyone else that way. 

Jon and Ghost return to the free folk village soon after daybreak. A sentinel on the outskirts raises his hand to acknowledge Jon as they pass. He can hear the bustle of the free folk as they start rousing from their beds for the day. Babies are crying. Women are shouting at their mates. Fires are being stoked by bleary eyed men. As he approaches his own tent ready to shake off some of his traveling gear and heavy furs, Jon hears a familiar voice calling him. 

“‘Ay, Head Crow! Have ye’ finally returned? Did ye’ get tired of ye’ balls being frozen to the side of yer leg?” Jon smirks a little. No matter his title or circumstance, nothing would stop King Tormund Giantsbane from making a raucous joke for all and sundry to hear. Sometimes Jon is jealous of his friend’s ability to be so full of mirth and joy. He wishes he could laugh with the same abandon and feeling. 

Jon turns and is struck by surprise at who is walking quietly behind the King-Beyond-the Wall. Her blonde hair is short-cropped, and falls somewhat severely against a face with an expression that is equal parts stern and curious. She walks a little stiffly due to her armor, and as she nears Jon can see that her eyes are searching his face. Despite the years that have passed, Jon sees that she recognizes him instantly.

Tormund breaks the silence. “I see the way yer looking at my big lady, Crow. Don’t get any ideas, she’s all mine.” He laughs loudly and Ser Brienne of Tarth, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, narrows her eyes at him. 

“As I have said many times, Tormund Giantsbane, please refrain from any inappropriate suggestions. I have been commanded to this...place for one particular purpose, and I will thank you to remember your manners.” Tormund laughs again and Brienne turns to Jon. “Jon Snow, I would like a moment to discuss a matter of great importance with you. A matter that involves King Bran and your future.” 

Jon examines Brienne for a moment, wondering at the purpose she hinted at. “I’m sorry you have traveled this far, my lady, but I am no longer part of that realm of men. I disobeyed my orders and refused my place in the Night’s Watch. King Bran does not rule here.” 

Brienne looks uncomfortable. As Commander of the Kingsguard, she likely doesn’t have to deal with much argument at her requests, but Jon surmises that she isn’t one to let the position go to her head. No, Ser Brienne of Tarth is uncomfortable because she takes pride in doing the right and honorable thing, and she isn’t sure if what she is about to say or do is the right or honorable thing. 

“Jon Snow, King Bran may not be your king-” She grimaces as she says this. “-but, when you were sentenced to the Night’s Watch for your crimes against Daenerys Targaryen, that was under King Bran’s reign. Although this was under duress and at great-” 

Jon interrupts her suddenly. “My lady, Ser Brienne, Lord Commander...Lady Commander? I apologize, I don’t know what you’d prefer to be called. Regardless, I don’t think you understand. I don’t mean to hear anymore of this. I’ve just returned from a very long scouting trip, and I have business to be sorted. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” Jon turns abruptly, enters his tent, and starts shrugging off his furs. 

Outside he hears Tormund mollifying the knight and leading her away with promises of the best goat’s milk in the North, all too happy to have the statuesque woman to himself. Jon sets to the task of sorting his gear, refusing to imagine what his cousin Bran could want with him. Though much time has passed since he was involved in the politics of Westeros, Jon knows that it isn’t customary for the Commander of the Kingsguard to leave King’s Landing. He doesn’t allow himself to think, or to hope, or to wonder what this visit could mean for the people he once loved. Arya...Bran…Sansa...

When Brienne spoke Daenerys’ name, it was the first time he’d heard it out loud in many years. It was a punch to Jon’s gut. He’d had nothing but time to pour over every choice and decision he’d made that lead to him putting a knife in the woman he thought he loved. What began as anguish and soul-crushing weariness slowly turned to anger and quiet shame over the years. Anger for allowing his feelings to blind him the truth of who she was, and shame for allowing his family to nearly be destroyed because of it. The free folk never spoke of what happened beyond the wall. 

Sometimes he thought that maybe it was all just a fever dream, a thing born of his nightmares and suffering. 

The North was everything that Daenerys Targaryen wasn’t. There was little there to remind him of her, and eventually he allowed himself to stop hearing the sound of people crying out as they were burnt alive, and the smell of flesh as it melted from their bones. Eventually he stopped remembering. Eventually he could only focus on the sound of snow crunching beneath his feet and the smell of pine trees and dirt. Eventually he felt nothing at all.

As he lay down in his tent that night, Jon remembers how he’d awoken that morning, with the sudden jolt of his body refusing to succumb again to death. It was an omen. Here was Brienne of Tarth, a shadow of his past returning to remind him of everything he’d worked so hard to forget. 

Jon stared at the roof of his tent and willed himself not to think. Not about Arya travelling across the world searching for belonging and adventure, or Bran on his throne and ruling all of Westeros from a gilded chair.

Jon definitely did not think about Sansa with her hair kissed by fire, or the way she’d looked at him when they’d last said goodbye. Jon couldn’t afford to think about that. 

He closes his eyes and tries to sleep, but in the darkness the crows are screaming.


	2. Jon

_Jon_

Jon avoids the tall woman and her news from the South for the better part of the next day. Likely Tormund kept Brienne preoccupied with whisperings of sweet nothings and proposals of queendom. “I can make ye my queen-of all this!”

Tormund had been nursing tender feelings for the lady-knight for many years, nearly as long as Jon knew him. When he returned to Castle Black for the last time, Jon chose to abandon his orders and followed Tormund beyond the ruins of the wall into the wilderness. It was a long journey, and Tormund liked to talk. A lot.

Tormund regaled the tale of his broken heart at the hands of Ser Brienne and the Kingslayer, and although he always put a mirthful spin on it, Jon could see that it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Jon himself never spoke of his own heart; its yearnings or otherwise. For too long it felt like he’d been a victim of Ramsay Bolton: flayed alive and raw, his insides bared for everyone to see. Tormund was observant enough not to ask questions.

At mid-day, he pulls out his makeshift map of The Land of Always Winter and sets to adding his new discoveries. Jon had become quite the cartographer over the years. With quill and ink in hand, he transferred images from the rough sketches he made periodically during his scouting trip.

As he sits back and surveys his work, Jon is pleased. This was something he could do; it was honest, hard work. The land was just what it was, and no amount of manipulation or calculation would ever change it.

As the sun begins to sink below the horizon, Jon hears voices approaching his tent. Tormund and Bran’s Kingsguard. Jon steels himself.

“Come out, ye quivering crow!” Tormund booms, then his head suddenly appears in the flap of Jon’s tent. “I’ve kept the tall woman busy all day for ye,” he says quietly. “She really seemed to enjoy the way I milk a goat-” His head disappears again, with a loud thud and a guffaw of laughter. Jon can hear a scuffle outside the tent.

“Jon Snow,” Brienne begins, fighting hard to keep a serious tone in her voice over Tormund’s boisterous laughter. “Please grant me entrance into your home. I think you’ll find that what I have to say is of great interest to you.”

Jon sighs. “Please enter, my lady. It wouldn’t do for me to have you standing outside my tent all evening. I hear there are creatures with red fur poking about these parts!” Jon raises his voice at the end, a clear jab at his friend. Jon hears him laugh loudly and walk away.

Brienne enters. She no longer has the stiff, metal armor and is now wearing several layers of fur. She notices Jon’s glance at her new attire. “Your king was kind enough to loan me the proper garments for this weather. I forgot how cold it can be up here in the North.”

Jon gestures for Brienne to sit in a wooden chair wrapped sparsely with furs. He sits in a similar chair, and she follows suit. At this level, Jon can see that Brienne’s gold hair is lightly dusted with grey just at her temples, but she hasn’t spent her time serving under King Bran unhappily. The creases at her eyes and on the sides of her mouth tell Jon she has had plenty of laughter over the years.

“Jon,” she begins, her tone less stoic than before. “Your brother...I’m sorry, your cousin sent me here to tell you this in person because he was afraid you may ignore a raven. It seems he was likely right.” Brienne is looking at Jon imploringly, but not unkindly.

He looks down, abashed. “I can’t be part of that anymore. When I left Castle Black for the last time, I did so knowing that it would mean a separation between myself and everything I was before.”

“Hear me out, Jon. King Bran and the small council have been discussing this matter at length for some time. When the request was received, we began weighing our options. The Unsullied have settled in Naath, and have no immediate plans to leave. They have no interest in the comings and goings of the people of Westeros. Grey Worm-” Jon grimances at this name.

“Grey Worm,” Brienne continues, “died several years ago. Few are left who are concerned with the bastard Jon Snow. Drogon has not been seen since…well, in a very long time.”

Jon can’t look at her face. He knows what she’s going to say, but he doesn’t know how to respond. He’s staring blankly at the compass sitting on the table beside him. He half expects to see it spinning wildly, but it still points north. True north.

He finally turns and looks at Brienne, and she takes this as a gesture to continue. “King Bran has decreed that you shall be pardoned. Of all your crimes against the crown and the Mad Queen.”

Jon closes his eyes and breathes in deeply, but Brienne isn’t done. “However…”

Jon opens his eyes again.

“...as the rightful heir to the Six Kingdoms and a pardoned war criminal, you cannot live in Westeros. King Bran was appointed by a council, but some of the people of Westeros still cling to the old ways. If you accept your pardon, you must never return South. You may take a wife and bare children. A Northern wife.”

Jon feels his chest constrict suddenly, and he stands up quickly. It feels as if his heart is going to burst from its cage. Brienne stands suddenly as well, her eyes sorrowful. “I know this is a lot for you. I know you love Daenerys, and you don’t want-”

“STOP.” Jon puts his hand up, breathing heavily. “Stop. I don’t...I didn’t…”

Brienne is searching his eyes again, her own seeming very confused. “You didn’t? I mean, I thought...well, we all thought…”

“I believed I loved her, because I was a fool. Daenerys had great passions, great ideas for the Seven Kingdoms. I followed her because I believed in those things, and she made me believe in her. I was an idiot. I allowed her to…”

Jon stops, remembering something Brienne said before.

“Who made the request?” He asks quietly.

“I’m sorry?” The abrupt change in the conversation takes Brienne a moment to adjust to.

“Before. You said that someone made the request. I assume you meant they requested my pardon. Who was it?”

Brienne’s voice lowers and her tone is hushed.

“It was the Queen, Jon...” She pauses and looks at him, her eyes thoughtful.

“Queen Sansa Stark of Winterfell.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I've been playing around with a lot of different ways this story can go, and I feel like I've landed on something that feels right. Jonsa is endgame, but there will be other storylines as well. I intend to update every other day or so, depending. The next chapter should be Sansa's. 
> 
> Please review! I'd love to receive feedback from you guys!


	3. Sansa

 

_Sansa_

 

Sansa is in the Godswood when the raven arrives. She isn’t praying; she hasn’t done so in years. She finds solace and rest under the heart tree at times when the mantle of Queen in the North weighs heaviest. Here, at least for a moment, she can just be Sansa again.

She hears the soft crunch of footsteps approaching, but doesn’t turn until the last moment. It’s the maester, with a scroll in hand.

“My Queen,” the old man bows somewhat stiffly, his bones likely creaking from the effort. “Your raven has returned.”

Sansa looks at the maester.

 _He’s tired_ , she thinks. _This is too much for him_.

Truly, Maester Wolkan has been her loyal attendant these last months, an admirable stand-in for her Hand. However, no one could replace the position of her most trusted advisor, the Hand of the Queen.

The death of Meera Reed had struck Sansa harder than she realized. In truth, she had been more than just her Hand; Meera had been her dearest friend.

Sansa remembers when she first returned to Winterfell after The Long Night and the death of the Dragon Queen. Meera was there waiting in the courtyard, her bow on her back and a curious expression on her face.

At the time, Sansa foolishly thought she’d seen jealousy in Meera’s eyes. Sometimes the ghosts of her past still haunted her, but never as much as they had during those first years as Queen. Though confident in her abilities to rule justly, in her darkest moments she could hear the whisperings of Cersei and Littlefinger, manipulating Sansa from their graves.

In time, Sansa learned that Meera Reed was just as faithful to the North as her father Howland had been to Ned Stark all those years ago. She was cunning and forthright, and she had an instinct for doing the honorable thing, even when it was difficult. Appointing her as Hand only seemed fitting.

No, what Sansa had seen in Meera’s eyes that day in the courtyard hadn’t been jealousy; it had been sadness. The absence of Bran’s return to Winterfell confirmed the harsh reality that he likely would never enter through those gates again; at least not as the true Bran.

Now he was the King of Westeros, the Three Eyed Raven. “He ceased being Bran a long time ago.” Meera had said sadly one evening as they sat by the fire in her private chambers. This sudden vulnerability had taken Sansa aback, for she’d seldom spoke of her time beyond the wall. In the near decade as her Hand, Meera had grown to be Sansa’s closest and perhaps only friend, but she’d kept her time with Bran close to her heart and far from her lips.

“Something... _dark_ took over him while we were in that cave under the Weirwood tree.” she’d said balefully. “Bran entered. Someone else left.”

Meera’s words reminded Sansa of another Stark boy who’d left Winterfell on a journey and become someone else along the way. A boy with dark hair and mournful eyes who turned into a man with the entire world on his shoulders.

Sansa wondered what sparked this sudden exposition into Meera’s past, but before she could ask any questions her friend had bid her goodnight, leaving her to stare into the fire alone.

When Sansa discovered that Meera hadn’t risen from her bed the next morning, she’d felt cold slither down her spine. She’d entered Meera’s chambers brashly, refusing to entertain the idea that something could have happened to the Hand of the Queen in the most protected keep in the North.

There had been no fire in the hearth. An eerie chill had settled about the room, nearly taking Sansa’s breath away. In the bed lay Meera, her eyes closed in death.

In her hand she clutched a scroll with a familiar seal from the South.

“The raven, Your Grace.” Sansa’s thoughts are interrupted by Maester Wolkan and she returns to the present. His weathered hand is clasping a scroll stamped with the same seal Sansa had found in Meera’s. She takes it from him carefully, as if the parchment itself might burn her.

The message is simple.

J _on Snow is yours_.

Sansa closes her eyes, breathing the Godswood into her lungs.

In the tree above her, a crow blinks its eyes quickly- as if breaking a long reverie. It shakes out its feathers and takes flight into the grey sky.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I hope you like Sansa’s first chapter. Fun fact! This is a re-write; the original was going in a direction that felt tired and didn’t do her character justice. A random lord from the Stormlands wanted to ask for Sansa’s hand in marriage (of course she declined) and later the maester delivered the raven from Bran in her private chambers. Our Queen is so much more than a means to an end for some lord, and starting her story that way didn’t ring true.
> 
> I'm sorry if this chapter seems short, but I figure since I am updating so frequently that it would be okay?
> 
> Anyway, thanks for the support. It really means a lot to me!  
> Please keep reviewing!


	4. Sansa

Sansa

That night Sansa dreams of a dark haired boy whose eyes are being pecked by crows. She desperately tries to beat them away, but her arms seem to be made of lead. She can’t move fast enough to stop them, and when she tries to scream her words disappear into the air like mist on the sea.

When she awakes, Sansa touches her eyes and feels the wetness of tears.

Outside her window she sees the sun has begun to rise, and Sansa thanks the Mother for such small mercies; she doesn’t think she’d earn anymore moments of sleep this night after all.

She thinks about the dark haired boy in her dreams; he’d been there often lately, but she had yet to see his face without a murder of crows blocking her view.

 _Who are you?_ She wonders. _Why won’t you let me sleep?_

Sansa sighs, and leaves her bed. On a table nearby is a small basin of water, and she splashes her face quickly, washing away the ghosts of her dreams and any traces of tears.

Mid-morning, Sansa convenes with her small council, its members consisting of a single representative from each remaining Northern house. Meera Reed’s empty place at the table mirrors the hollowness Sansa still feels in her chest at her loss.

“The King of Westeros has granted my request,” she says, addressing the room solemnly. “Jon Snow has been pardoned and shall return to Winterfell.”

Some of the members of the small council exchange looks. Lord Tallhart clears his throat, but before he can speak, Lady Cerwyn stands. “Your Grace, what of Jon Snow’s true parentage? How are we to know that he won’t take this opportunity to attempt to gain control of the North?”

Sansa’s nostrils flair. “Lady Cerwyn, I would encourage you to remember that Jon Snow was once our king. He has Stark blood, and this is his home. He has always been loyal to the North.”

Lady Cerwyn looks to the other members of the small council. This time, Lord Tallhart finds his words. “My Queen, I beg your pardon. We all have the best interests of the North on our minds. Most importantly, we want to see our Queen safe.”

Tallhart pauses a moment, but continues boldly. “We once named Jon Snow our king, yes. He helped to liberate us from the Boltons and lead us in the fight against the Night King and the dead. He served our people well; but we cannot disregard that Jon Snow is a Queenslayer.”

Sansa bristles, her voice raising slightly. “Jon Snow saved us from the Mad Queen. He put a dagger in her belly because he didn’t have any other choice. Daenerys Targaryen was not a queen, she was a tyrant who would have turned her dragon northward if she’d been given the chance. Jon sacrificed everything for the North, and we thanked him for it by sending him to the wall.”

She puts a hand on the table and stands, slowly but determinedly. “It has been ten years. The North would be remiss if we allowed our faithful servant to molder like discarded fruit out there in the barren wasteland. We owe him this, and he will return home to Winterfell.”

Her last words were said with such certainty that it couldn’t be argued. Sansa had served the North well, and the people adored her. The members of the small council couldn’t remember a time when she had made a decision brashly or without just cause.

“I apologize, my Queen.” Lord Tallhart says humbly. “Of course we trust your guidance in this matter.”

Sansa nods her head and her shoulders visibly relax. The council concludes shortly after, and she returns to her chambers.

Sansa has maneuvered her fair share of difficult political situations over the years, and she was wise enough to utilize her small council to advise her in matters that required more than one mind. She’d informed her fellow Northmen and Northwomen on the council of her intentions for Jon Snow, but she hadn’t invited their opinions on this. Sansa had made the decision months ago; it was settled.

In truth, Sansa hadn’t any affirmation that Jon would want to return to Winterfell. Pardon or no, Jon had always followed his own path. As confident as she had been in her words that this was his home, she couldn’t help but remember a time when he’d sat apart from the other Stark children.

Growing up, Jon always had a sullen look on his face and Sansa’s mother said it was because he’d been born on the wrong side of the sheets. Sansa hadn’t been meant to overhear that, but from then on she was sure to sleep with the coverlets up to her neck, lest she end up on the wrong side of them.

Catelyn Stark had no love for her husband’s bastard son, and it took Sansa many years to realize why. As for her own feelings towards Jon Snow, Sansa never could reconcile herself to consider him her true brother. He was a melancholy little thing, and she had better things on her mind.

No, Jon hadn’t mattered to Sansa at all.

Until suddenly he did.

The day she escaped Ramsay’s hounds and rode to the Night’s Watch with Lady Brienne, Sansa had felt so much anguish in her body that it seemed as if it were eating her up from the inside out. Her cold and sodden clothes rubbed wounds that hadn’t had a chance to heal, and at times it felt like her skin was barely holding her together. She thought maybe she could just fall apart and be left nothing but a pile of bones and flesh.

Mired in woe, she’d been caught completely off guard by what she felt when she saw Jon overlooking the courtyard of Castle Black. Hope. A piece of home.

Only in her deepest, darkest moments did she let herself remember what she’d felt when he’d met her in the center of the courtyard and took her in his arms. He’d felt so large, and she so small. Suddenly she wasn’t falling apart anymore.

 _Perhaps Jon won’t return to Winterfell,_ she thinks that evening. She sits in a large wooden chair beside the fire in her chambers.

In those last days together, Sansa had betrayed Jon’s confidence and told Tyrion the truth of his heritage. When discussing Jon leaving the North, Tyrion had mentioned something he’d heard him say.

“As your brother once told me, he’s not a Stark.”

Sansa can still feel that, too. The way those words had cut into her like a hot knife to butter. It _burned_.

Jon had been slipping further and further away, entranced by some mystical hold on him by the Dragon Queen. Sansa didn’t know how to stop it, and he couldn’t see reason. They’d fallen into argument and tension.

“Did you bend the knee to save the North?” she’d asked Jon. “Or because you love her?”

He’d looked at her sharply, but his voice was quiet. “Why can’t it be both?”

Sansa had known then. She couldn’t rely on Jon anymore. As much as it had pained her, she had to let him go, and she had to protect her people.

Sansa hadn’t allowed herself to cry in a very long time, not fully. At times her throat ached and her eyes pricked, but she never let herself slip into sorrow. She had to be stronger than that.

That night, she’d wept.

Sansa feels her throat begin that familiar burning as she stares into the fire and thinks of Jon.

Jon, her bastard brother.

Jon, the King in the North.

Jon, the rightful heir to the Iron Throne.

Jon, the Queenslayer.

 _Who are you?_ She wonders, not for the first time that day.

Sansa sleeps fitfully that night, but when she wakes in the morning she can’t remember if she dreamed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I know the first several chapters have involved a lot of introspection, but our two protagonists should be making moves soon. 
> 
> I cannot tell you how thankful I am for the responses. They really inspire me to write!


	5. Jon

_Jon_

Jon and Tormund sit atop their mounts on the edge of the forest and watch Ser Brienne as she rides away, towards Castle Black and the broken wall. Back to King’s Landing and everything Jon left behind. Eventually she fades into nothing against the stark white of the looming barrier.

“I take it you couldn’t convince her to be your queen?” Jon asks, smirking.

“Oh, don’t ye’ worry your little head about me, ye’ bastard. I couldn’t convince her to be my queen, but she did agree that I have the finest goat’s milk in all of the North. I suspect she’ll be back for it soon.”

Jon chuckles, wondering if Tormund referred to actual goat’s milk, or something more salacious. He decides that if something more had happened between them, Tormund was certainly the kind to speak plainly about it. Or else he wanted to protect the honor of his lady-knight; either way, Jon chooses to change the subject.

“Haven’t seen the other side of that wall in a long time,” he says, nodding ahead.

Tormund regards his old friend inquisitively, then abruptly turns his horse back toward the free folk camp.

“So, when are ye goin’ back home?” he asks Jon evenly, looking straight ahead as his horse plods ever north.

Jon turns his own horse and follows shortly behind. “Well, I suppose we will be there by nightfall, as usual.”

Tormund laughs softly, and looks back at Jon with a knowing glance. “No, you silly crow. When are ye goin’ back home- to your sister across the wall.”

Jon slows his own mount and narrows his eyes. “I didn’t say I accepted the pardon. You are my king, and this is my home now. I don’t belong on that side anymore.”

He pauses a moment, then says, “And I have no sister.”

“That’s right- she’s no’ your sister at all, is she? I remember Sansa well. She always reminded me of another lass with hair kissed by fire who could be as obstinate as an ass.”

Jon doesn’t respond, staring blankly ahead with an uncomfortable set to his mouth. The two ride in silence for a time.

“No, Sansa is no’ your sister anymore than I am.” Tormund says from his perch up ahead. “But she is your family. That’s somethin’ you don’t turn your back on.”

Later that evening, Jon sits by the fire pit in the center of the free folk camp and ponders many things. Several hares turn on a spit, and the flames crackle with an aberrant rhythm.

Jon considers Tormund’s remark regarding his familial relationship with Sansa. His friend is right, she isn’t his sister. If he’s honest with himself, she’d never felt like a sister to Jon at all- half, or otherwise.

As children at Winterfell, Jon had always existed somewhat outside the circle of the others. Not quite the same. Not quite a Stark. He slept in their beds, he ate at their tables, he wore their clothes; but he’d always been a Snow.

Sansa was guarded like a precious gem by Catelyn Stark. Jon was never outright forbidden to touch her or look at her, but the fierce expression on her mother’s face whenever he came near was more than enough warning to keep his distance.

“She has the Tully hair and her mother’s beauty” he’d heard people say. Jon remembers thinking that wasn’t so. It was true she had the same burnished copper hair, but Sansa lacked the harsh demeanor of Lady Catelyn, and in effect she possessed a beauty untarnished by years of somber looks thrown at small children.

Sometimes Sansa would even smile at him.

Years later, he would take that same copper-haired girl in his arms in the courtyard of Castle Black. She’d been cold and bedraggled, her face muddied and her hair a wild crown about her head. Yet to Jon she’d appeared as a golden bloom breaking through the bleak and broken ground.

“Jon,” she’d breathed, her body sighing into him.

He’d never touched her before.

That evening, Sansa sat in his chambers sipping soup from a small clay pot. “I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about what an ass I was to you, ” she’d said quietly, peering into her bowl. “I wish I could change everything.”

“We were children.” Jon said. He couldn’t stop looking at her. Sansa was not the same girl he’d left for the Night’s Watch. She was troubled by specters of her past, something Jon could claim for himself.

“Forgive me,” she’d pleaded, and in her eyes he saw the reflection of every suffering she’d endured.

On the docks of King’s Landing, Sansa had made that request of Jon again. This time she stood before him as an almost-queen; regal and imposing. This time she’d hidden her ghosts a little better.

When the wind blew just the right way, he could still smell the stench of burning bodies, and when he closed his eyes, he could still see Daenerys laying on the floor of the Red Keep, her life’s blood seeping onto the crumbling stone.

“I wish there had been another way. Can you forgive me?”

Sansa’s words had echoed the yearning that roiled inside him, and it struck so deeply that he’d had to look away.

Nearly ten years later, Jon still remembers with vivid clarity the expression Sansa held as she stood on the dock of King’s landing and watched him drift away.

Jon leaves the fire pit and goes to his tent, a decision made.

Hours later, he’s returned to the edge of the forest, the wall once again looming on the horizon. Ghost sits close by, and Jon has loaded his horse with enough provisions to last him at least two fortnights.

He turns and looks at an unusually quiet Tormund, and disturbs the silence. His voice is rougher than he intends. “You’ve been a good friend to me, King-Beyond-The-Wall. I don’t know how-”

“Oy little crow,” Tormund interrupts loudly. “ Don’t go cryin’ over me now. Save that for yer red-haired lass across the wall.” He slaps Jon on his back and the friends laugh together for a while.

“That red-haired lass will be my Queen, now.” Jon muses quietly.

“Is that so? Will that be in more ways than one?” Tormund laughs heartily again.

Jon smiles a little and looks down. “Take care of yourself out here, old friend.”

Tormund nods, and Jon nudges his horse forward. Beyond the trees, the night air bites a little harder and the moon glows like a lamp overhead. Ghost follows his master swifty behind.

When Jon turns and looks behind him for the last time, Tormund is already gone.

\--------------------------------------------------------------

Several weeks later, Jon and Ghost approach the gates of Winterfell, the horse tromping wearily through the mud of the Queen’s road. His eyes drink in the sight of his childhood home, Stark banners rustling gently in the wind.

 _Home_ , Jon thinks.

He doesn’t even notice the black birds sitting in the trees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N:  
> Thanks again for the support!
> 
>  
> 
> Does anybody know where I got the title for this fic? Believe it or not, it is Game of Thrones related, but TV show only. I’ve been wondering if anyone would comment on it. I’ll award 10 whole brownie points to anyone who answers correctly!


	6. Sansa

_Sansa_

 

“Your Grace, the Houses have sent ravens with their inventories. There are enough crops, grain, and livestock to sustain all of the North for half a decade at most.”

Sansa furrows her brow. “That’s not long enough,” she says. Maester Wolkan sets down his seeing lens, closes his ledgers, and looks up at her.

“I’m sorry, Your Grace. As you know, the people and lands suffered greatly at the hands of our enemies during the battle against the dead. Why, the dragons alone ate-”

“Yes, Maester Wolkan. I remember the dragons.” Sansa cuts him off, turning to look out the window. She can see the people of Winterfell milling about the courtyard, going on with their daily routines and work. These are the people Sansa vowed to serve the day the crown of wolves was first placed on her head.

In ten years, she’d hoped to have restored the larders and farmlands to a level in which she could close off borders if such a need arose. While the North maintains careful relationships with the Riverlands and the Vale in order to ensure advantageous trade negotiations, Sansa never wants to make a decision between feeding her people and protecting them from intruders, regardless of their history of trade together.

This matter has become even more pressing to her as of late. “I want to see the North self-sufficient. I can’t trust anyone who isn’t us.”

The maester doesn’t reply, and she sighs. Moments like this serve as a painful reminder that she is the only Stark left in Winterfell.

“You always were the smartest of us, Sansa,” someone says behind her.

Sansa turns. No one has called her by her given name in many years, at least not in her presence. She is surprised to see that Maester Wolkan has left the room.

In his place stands a ghost.

“Jon,” Sansa whispers.

Suddenly it’s as if they have returned to the courtyard of Castle Black, and Jon has Sansa in an embrace that nearly lifts her from the floor. He envelops her, and when he speaks the deep timbre of his voice resonates through her bones.

“I should be kneeling,” he says by way of apology, and Sansa breaks away to look at him.

Jon’s short, dark curls are gathered back at the nape of neck, and he wears a gambeson made of leather dyed so dark it’s nearly black. A cloak of fur sits on his shoulders. Sansa only gives his garments a cursory glance, instead settling on his eyes.

Amber and gold flecked, just the way she’d remembered. There are creases at the corners, a tribute to his years beyond the wall. His gaze is soft and warm.

_Still Jon_ , she thinks.

He cups her face and smiles, gesturing to her crown. “I like the wolf bit.”

Sansa laughs, and he lets his hand fall away.

“Why didn’t you answer my ravens?” she asks quietly, and immediately she regrets it as Jon’s eyes grow somber. The words hang between them, a channel as deep and wide as every mile between the wall and Winterfell.

“I was-I am a murderer, Sansa. A war criminal banished to the Night’s Watch. I abandoned my duty and intended never to return to this side of edge of the world. It was better that way.” Jon doesn’t look away from her, not bothering to hide his wretchedness.

“So then why did you? Why have you returned?”  
“I wasn’t given much choice, was I? Should I have risked my neck and ignored the command of another crown?”

Sansa backs away, her insides twisting. Suddenly the air is cold, and she feels the intimacy of their reunion stifled by the truths of their pasts. She straightens her neck and her hands go to her side. She schools her expression into an impassive mask.

“I hadn’t realized I was putting such an imposition on you when I arranged for your pardon. I apologize,” she says cooly, but she isn’t looking at him anymore. She walks across the room and stops just at the doors, then turns. Her expression is empty.

Jon closes his eyes and drags a hand down his face. “ Sansa, I didn’t mean-”

“The crown commands that you leave this room,” she interrupts hotly, throwing his words back at him.

Jon leaves. When the doors shut, Sansa closes her eyes and feels her throat begin that familiar burn.  
\--------------------------------------------------

Sansa doesn’t sup at the high table in the Great Hall that evening. She’s in no humor to playact the part of Queen; she feels too raw. She’s taken down her hair and changed into a simpler gown. She’s tired of being pulled in every direction by her typical intricate hairstyles and corsets.

An accomplished seamstress, Sansa sits by the fire and picks up the piece she has been working on for the last fortnight. She doesn’t have to sew her own clothing anymore, but she enjoys it, and it allows her to be mindless for a little while.

She has requested a small meal be sent to her chambers, and when she hears a quiet knock at her door she calls for the maidservant to enter. She hopes she brings lemon cakes at the very least.

She hears the maidservant enter the room, and she doesn’t look up from her work as the girl sets the tray of assorted cheeses and bread on the table beside her. “Are they serving lemon cakes this evening?” she asks, pausing after a final sitch.

“Can’t say as I know,” a low and masculine voice says, and Sansa jumps, nearly pricking herself with her sewing needle. When she turns around she has to stop herself from throwing her hoop at the man’s head.

“Jon Snow, you- you- meddlesome bastard! Who let you in here?” She points her sewing hoop at him accusingly. “How do you keep sneaking up on me?”

Jon laughs and holds his hands up as if to proclaim his innocence, saying, “You learn to be quiet when your life depends on it. You shouldn’t be so trusting. The girl bringing your dinner only needed a flagon of wine to grant me her place as your maidservant.”

“And the guards?” she asks incredulously.

Jon shrugs. “I haven’t been gone long enough for my own men to forget who they once called king.”

Sansa relaxes her shoulders and sets her sewing hoop on the table, but says tacitly, “What are you doing here, Jon?”

“I’m sorry for the things I said, Sansa. I meant none of it.”

“None?” she asks, even quieter than before.

“None, except for that I should be kneeling. You are My Queen, now. I owe you my life, I owe you everything. I want to kneel for you.”

Sansa closes her eyes a moment and shakes her head, almost laughing sadly. “I never wanted you to kneel to me, Jon. I’m not Daenerys Targaryen, I don’t need you in my bed and prostrate at my feet so I can use you for my bidding.”

Taken aback by her frankness, Jon looks away and Sansa feels shame slither over her. She’d made an admission that touched too close to her most hidden feelings, the constant comparison she makes between herself and the Dragon Queen. Between herself and Jon Snow’s departed lover.

The room is quiet, and Sansa feels like she is about to burst into a million tiny pieces. Jon is looking at the floor, an unreadable expression on his face.

When she can’t take it any longer, Sansa takes a deep breath and says, “Jon-”

He looks up at her.

“I want you to be my Hand.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Wintercameandwent, I hereby grant you 10 brownie points for getting my question right! Faith of Angels was the codename used during the filming of Season 8. Do with those points what you will.
> 
> We are in the upward swing of this fic, so things will be getting exciting. Thanks for the continued support and please review!


	7. Jon

_Jon_

Jon asks Sansa to repeat herself, certain he’s misheard her request while distracted by the thought of himself ‘prostate at her feet’, as she’d so eloquently phrased it. She’s standing in front of the hearth, illuminated by the outline of flickering fire. Her hair falls in rust-colored waves around her shoulders, and Jon hates himself for noticing the way her lips are parted slightly.

Time has been a gracious companion to Sansa. When he’d first seen her gazing out the window that morning, she’d been draped in the fine and byzantine silks that befitted a queen, the crown of wolves sitting atop hair swept up in a complicated knot. She was formidable and striking, but when she spoke he could hear an edge of weariness in her voice.

 Now she appears to be something otherworldly, lit up like an ember glowing in the darkness.

 “I want you to be my Hand.” she says again, this time louder and with more self-assurance.

 “I’m not sure I understand your meaning, Sansa.” he says. “It would hardly be fitting, considering.”

 “Considering what, Jon? That you were once the King in the North? That you sacrificed ten years of your life beyond the wall for the good of the realm?” she says, exasperated.

 Jon shakes his head, and sits in the nearest armchair. “You don’t understand.”

 “I do understand. You have Stark blood. The North is your home. **You** should be ruling Westeros-”

 “Sansa, you speak treason.” Jon says, bewildered.

“I’m the Queen in the North.” she retorts, straightening her back. “I speak nothing but the truth.”

 Sansa’s gaze is white-hot, and Jon meets it with equal aplomb. He’d forgotten how it had always seemed that they closer they got to one-another, the quicker their arguments were to ignite. She was the flint to his flame.

  _Or perhaps the other way around_ , Jon thinks with a fleeting look to her hair.

 Sansa notices the brief glimpse and steps back, feeling the tingle of sudden self-awareness. She closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, and finds her voice again.

 “Jon, I need you. I’ve been without a Hand for quite some time. Someone, something took Meera’s life, right here in Winterfell. I fear it won’t end with her.”

Sansa moves across the room, to an ornate box sitting on a low table. She opens it and takes out something small.

 "I know what I ask is a burden. You’ve done your part for the North, for all of Westeros. I wouldn’t ask this of you if there were another way.”

  _I wish there had been another way. Can you forgive me?_ Jon remembers.

 Moments later, Sansa has taken his hands in her own and is pressing something cold and circular into his palm. She is so close that he can feel her warmth sliding over him like waves breaking on the shore.

 “Please. Take this. Sleep tonight and come to me tomorrow. I’ll explain everything then.” Her eyes are pleading.

 “Sansa-” he begins, but she’s touching him again, and her face is flushed.

 “It’s him,” she whispers. “The one who murdered Meera. The Three Eyed Raven.”

Later in his own chambers, Jon looks at the object Sansa has given him. He can still feel the places their skin met, burning as if touched by a flame. It was a silver pin, two wolves linked together with a hand inside, pointing downward.

He slides it onto the lapel of his gambeson, and suddenly Sansa isn’t alone in Winterfell anymore.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------

Jon returns to Sansa the next morning. The Northmen guarding her doors nod as he nears; if they take notice of the pin declaring his new position, it doesn’t show on their faces.

He knocks softly, and Sansa opens the door. Her response to his lapel adornment is altogether different from the men outside. While she doesn’t voice her thanks, she takes his hand again and gives a small smile.

Behind her, Jon sees piles of books and manuscripts scattered all about the room; on tables, on chairs, on the floor, and the bed. Some are laying open haphazardly, some are stacked precariously and on the verge of tipping over.

“What is this?” Jon asks, somewhat incredulously.

“Well Jon,” Sansa sniffs as she releases his hand. “These are books. I know you’ve spent quite a long time beyond the wall, but I didn’t expect you to forget about reading…”

Jon rolls his eyes, and Sansa laughs quietly as she starts clearing space on an armchair. While she works, he notices that she has pulled her hair into a loose plait, and she’s wearing a dark, fitted leather gown with few decorations apart from an onyx colored fur cloak.

He feels something disconcertingly uncomfortable when he becomes aware of how closely their appearances mirror each other, like two sides of a coin.

Sansa gestures for Jon to sit when she’s done, and sets a heavy red book in his lap. The corners are fraying and there’s something he suspects to be a dead spider smashed onto the cover. He eyes it warily. Sansa scoots another armchair directly in front of Jon’s and sits down.

“Last night I had Maester Wolkan bring me everything in his library that might speak of the Three Eyed Raven. In this book it says that the weirwood trees are all connected by this magical link and-” she looks up at Jon who is still inspecting the spider like it may spring to life at any moment.

“Jon, you aren’t listening!” Sansa huffs, pushing her chair away.

“I am! But Sansa, this is a book of lore. We can’t start a rebellion against your own brother based on something you read in one of Old Nan’s story books.”

“I’m not a fool, Jon Snow. I know how this sounds, but you have to listen to me.”

Sansa leaves her chair and goes back to the same box she’d taken his pin from the night before. When she returns, she has a scroll in her hand.

“Meera Reed served me well as Hand of the Queen. She was a wise advisor, and never guided me down the wrong path. She was a true friend to me, never wavering from what she believed to be right for the people of the North. But before her time at Winterfell, she served another.”

Sansa sits back down in her chair, eyes gazing past Jon, but seeing something that came to pass long ago.

“Meera took Bran beyond the wall, to the cave beneath a weirwood tree where the Three Eyed Raven had lived for many years. She said he looked like something unnatural and frightening, the roots of the tree growing through his very flesh.”

Sansa looks haunted as she speaks, but continues. “The Three Eyed Raven taught Bran how to see the things that had already happened. He saw Hodor as a boy at Winterfell. He saw father at the Tower of Joy, the day you were born. Underneath that tree, he learned how to see everything that was, and things that could be.”

Jon’s eyes wrinkle in confusion, thinking of the curious remark Bran had made when they reunited at Winterfell.

“Look at you,” Jon had said, breaking from their embrace. “You’re a man.”

“ _Almost_.”

“Bran learned something else, too.” Sansa says, capturing Jon’s attention again. “He learned how to put his mind inside of other things and see through its eyes. Animals and people. Meera called it warging.”

“One of the wildling men had the ability to warg.” Jon says gruffly. “His eyes would go white and his body slack, but his mind would be flying with the eagle overhead.”

Sansa nods her head. “Meera said Bran was inside himself that way for a long time. Bran turned inward, and the Three Eyed Raven perished at the hands of the dead. Meera wasn’t sure if Bran would ever find his way back out. When he finally opened his eyes again...Bran wasn’t Bran anymore.”

Jon sags against his chair, thinking of little Brandon Stark, his once half-brother.

Bran the Broken.

Bran, the Three Eyed Raven.

Bran, the King of Westeros.

He’d had many names, much like Jon himself.

Which one was true?

 _Maybe none_ , Jon considers, if Sansa’s story is to be believed. Maybe he and Bran were more similar than he’d realized; many names, but no one at all.

Except that wasn’t true anymore, was it? Sansa had given Jon a new name as Hand of the Queen. He looks at her, still holding the scroll in her hand that she’d taken from the box.

“What about that?” Jon asks, his voice hushed.

“Meera returned to Winterfell searching for Bran one last time. It was just before I was crowned. She stayed, and I named her my Hand. Meera didn’t speak of the things she’d seen in the cave under the weirwood until just a few months ago. The next morning, I found her in her bed- eyes shut forever. This was in her hand.”

Sansa looks at Jon sadly, and gives him the scroll. He unrolls it carefully.

 

 _I’ve been watching you, Meera Reed._  
_With a thousand eyes, and one._

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I know some have disagreed with Jon being Queen’s Hand, but Jon is the only Stark left besides Sansa in Winterfell. He is just as much a Stark has any of Ned’s children are.  
> As far as tradition goes, it is known that the Old Kings did not have Hands, but Sansa is very much aware of the mistakes of her brother, father, and forefathers, and she learned how to rule from living in both Winterfell and King’s Landing. I see her making her own way in the North, not necessarily always following the ways of the Old Kings.
> 
> As always, your support means everything to me!


	8. Sansa

_Sansa_

 

Sansa and Jon spend hours pouring over the books and manuscripts provided by Maester Wolkan, searching for something, anything that could shed light on the mystical lore surrounding the Three Eyed Raven.

It had been difficult for Sansa to surrender herself to the truth that her only surviving brother could be lead into darkness by something at once both malevolent and intangible. When Meera spoke of her belief that only Bran’s body had truly left the cave under the weirwood tree, Sansa felt a jolt of fear and sorrow run through her.

“Perhaps he’s still there,” Jon wonders aloud, looking up from a book. Sansa saw something break a little in his eyes when she’d told him that the true Bran may be no longer of this earth, as if a crumbling tower within him was being shaken.

“I can’t say,” She answers thoughtfully, setting the book aside that she’d been reading. “Honestly, I don’t know if anything here will be of use to us. The books that mention the Three Eyed Raven seem to be nothing but fables and folklore.”

Jon sits back, his eyes narrowed in reflection. “I remember Samwell Tarly telling me of the great libraries of the Citadel that contain manuscripts so guarded, only the Archmaesters are allowed to read them. If anything in all the realm exists that chronicles the Three Eyed Raven, it’s in those libraries.”

“Sam is the Grand Maester now. He’s on the small council. I wouldn’t expect him to betray his king without good reason.” Sansa is at the window, watching birds flit through the trees.

Jon doesn’t respond. He’s absently tracing the gold embossed letters on the cover of a book.

“The fables say that the greenseers of days past used the weirwood trees to observe everything that came before, and even things that could be.” Sansa continues. “But with time, the Three Eyed Raven’s strength can grow. He can see anything, anywhere. He could be watching us now. If we do something suspicious, he could look behind and find us here. Searching. Questioning. Plotting.”

“Sansa, let’s not get carried away. If he wanted us dead, the King of Westeros had plenty of opportunity ten years ago. Instead-”

“Instead, he maneuvered us conveniently out of the way!” Sansa says hotly, turning away from the window. “He gave me the North, and sent you to the wall-where we wouldn’t notice that Bran the Broken wasn’t Bran at all. Just a husk for the machinations of the Three Eyed Raven.”

Jon stands up quickly, ready to deny Sansa’s words, but she presses on before he can speak.

“We played into his hands, Jon. He knew I could never allow the North to bend the knee again, not after what happened. We were a small price to pay to gain control of the rest of Westeros. And you,” she says, moving towards him now.

She takes his hands again, as she had the night before. His fingers are calloused and his palms are rough. The sensation of his skin rasping against hers strums an unfamiliar chord in Sansa, one that she can’t place or understand.

Jon is looking at her, rapt with attention.

She takes a deep breath.

“You couldn’t take your rightful place on the throne as long as you took the Black. So you were sent to a broken wall to protect an enemy that no longer exists. A place where you could fade into nothing.”

Jon shakes his head in refusal. “I didn’t want to be king. Bran knew that, Sansa. And he didn’t send me to the wall without reason, the Unsullied refused my release unless I’d been given a proper punishment.” Jon argues. His eyes are dark, but he hasn’t taken his hands from hers.

“That’s just it,” Sansa says sadly. “Who told you your true name, Jon? Who told you that your mother was a Stark and your father a Targaryen? Who told you that your birthright was the Iron Throne, a truth that would cause a rift between you and the Dragon Queen?”

Jon looks pained and drops her hands. He turns away.

“The Three Eyed Raven saw it all. He knew what your parentage would mean, who it would threaten most.” Sansa says quietly, giving voice to revelations Jon wasn’t ready to speak into existence.

“He knew that you would do what was right to protect the realm. What’s worse, he manipulated you so that the blood would be on your hands, not his. We were pawns in his game, and he was awarded for it with the crown of Westeros while you were outcast like a criminal!” Sansa’s face is flushed and her eyes are bright with animation.

Jon turns around, speaking hurriedly. “Then why am I here? Did the Three Eyed Raven not see that granting my pardon would mean I’d return home to Winterfell, to you? Did he not see what you’d learned from Meera and know that uniting us against him could be dangerous for his claim of the throne?”

Sansa balks, confusion sweeping over her.

This time Jon takes her hands in his own, gathering them near his chest. “I made my choices, Sansa. The Three Eyed Raven may have seen what could be, but he didn’t put that dagger in Daenerys, I did. I did that for the realm, for our family...for you.” His voice is even lower at the end.

“I've had years to think about what I did, and why. I didn’t want to believe who Daenerys was, and I foolishly followed her because I was too damn tired to fight anymore. I’d seen too many men die, some at my own hand. I wanted her on that throne because I thought anything else meant that the bloodshed would have to continue. I was wrong. In every way imaginable. I was being truthful when I said that I went beyond the wall and never meant to return. It was a small punishment for allowing Danaerys Targaryen to wreak havoc on King’s Landing with her dragon. I killed Daenerys. And the Three Eyed Raven can’t take that from me.”

Jon puts his arms around Sansa, her cheek resting on his shoulder. He smells like leather, and the first wind of winter.

"We are not all puppets dancing to his tune.” Jon says, his voice a dulcet tremor against her chest. “I chose the North, and I chose you. I still choose you.”

Sansa pulls away to look at Jon, searching his eyes for his intentions.

He looks at her lips fleetingly and leans in.

Sansa closes her eyes, and feels Jon press his lips against her temple.

She doesn’t feel disappointment, because that would be strange. Jon Snow is her Hand, her once bastard brother. A chaste kiss on the forehead is only customary and right.

“We will find the truth of the Three Eyed Raven. Together. If Bran is gone, we won’t let him die without vengeance.”

Sansa nods without speaking, giving him a wan smile.

When he leaves, Sansa doesn’t press her fingers to her lips, and she absolutely doesn’t imagine what it may have felt like if Jon had brushed his mouth against hers.

__________________________________________________

 

That night Sansa dreams again of the dark haired boy being eaten by crows. This time she has mastery of her body, and she rushes towards him with a desperate wail. The black birds scatter, leaving behind something too horrific for Sansa to comprehend. The boy’s eyes are empty sockets, and his face is too bloody to recognize. When she finally reaches him, she’s deafened by the cacophony of crows screaming in her ears.

Sansa starts awake, the sound still ringing through her skull. She’s breathing heavily, and when she clutches her chest, she can feel her heart beating a thunderous tattoo against her hand.

Just before her dream ended, Sansa had seen something on the chest of the boy’s tunic. It was a sigil; one whose familiar outline she could stitch from memory.

The boy was a Stark, his wolf emblem stained dark red with his own blood.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I’m starting to realize that I don’t think I will be able to get this fic done by August like I had originally planned. I may extend it out, but updates won’t be as frequent once I’m back teaching.
> 
>  
> 
> Thanks for the support!


	9. Jon

_Jon_

When he returns to his own chambers that evening, Jon considers penning a raven to his old friend, Samwell Tarly-Grand Maester in King’s Landing.

_Tell me, friend. Is he still Bran? Or something dark?_

He thinks better of it, knowing that Sansa was right; Sam couldn’t give him those answers even if he wanted to. Perhaps he could grant someone entrance to the Citadel, but Jon had promised never to step foot back in Westeros, and he doubted the Archmaesters would consent to a criminal in their hallowed libraries. Pardon, or no.

Jon thinks back to the words Ser Brienne had spoken to him inside his tent beyond the wall.

“However, as the rightful heir...you cannot live in Westeros. If you accept your pardon, you can never return South.”

In that moment he hadn’t questioned this command, assuming that Bran had been obligated to keep Jon in the North for his own safety. In truth, any Unsullied visiting Westeros with a temper for rancor might see him about and choose to gut him for his crimes against their fallen queen.

Jon saw those words differently, now. They were colored by doubt and suspicion. Would Bran really have sent him to the wall all those years ago? Would he have demanded he never return South?

Would Bran even be wearing the crown at all?

Jon deliberates for some time, sitting on the edge of a bed piled high with furs. He’d nearly forgotten what it was like to sleep off the ground before returning to Winterfell. Even in his tent in the free folk village, Jon’s bed had been nothing but a simple cot made of animal skins stretched over wood.

He’d almost welcomed the numbing chill that seeped into his skin; it had felt like penance.

Jon’s mind turns, and thinking of that moment in his tent with Brienne reminds him of something else the lady-knight had said.

“You may take a wife and bare children. A Northern wife.”

 _A Northern wife_ , he thinks.

Marriage wasn’t something Jon could remember ever yearning for; even as a boy in Winterfell, he’d known that bastards didn’t have many prospects, and the Night’s Watch strictly forbade it. Marriage and children were luxuries, and Jon had never been given the right to even hope for them.

 _But Sansa_ …

Jon had to wonder why the Queen in the North hadn’t secured herself a match in all these years. She was beautiful and powerful, a fiery beacon against the backdrop of the grey landscapes of the North. He imagined many a lord had asked for her hand.

Jon well knew that Sansa had suffered in her previous marriage arrangements. Still but a child during her political unions to Tyrion Lannister and the monster Ramsay Bolton, Sansa had met womanhood without much reason to desire a husband.

Recalling the haunted, hollow look he saw in Sansa’s eyes when she’d sat across from him in his chambers at Castle Black makes Jon’s stomach twist. She’d scrubbed the dirt from her face, and her freshly-washed hair fell like copper waves as it dried by the fire. His fur cloak rested on her shoulders, and she seemed so small beneath it.

For a time they sat in silence, the ghosts of the things they still carried on their shoulders hanging between them.

How could Jon tell Sansa that he’d held a wildling girl kissed by fire in his arms as she died, that he’d closed many eyes forever? How could he tell her that he’d seen the dead walking the earth, their corpses reanimated by ice and terror?

He couldn’t remember how it had begun, but eventually they poured into each other the things weighing them down. Sansa had seen the executioner put her father’s head on a pike, and afterward she’d endured the abuse of Joffrey Baratheon and his mother Cersei in King’s Landing for years. Then Petyr Baelish had taken her to The Eyrie, and she’d been married to Ramsay Bolton in the godswood of Winterfell.

“Ramsay...he’s a monster, Jon. He tortures people for sport. He takes off their skin and watches their blood melt the snow. And he’s in Winterfell, our home.”

“Did he hurt you, Sansa?” Jon had asked coarsely.

She’d looked at him full in the face, her eyes laden with grief.

“Yes.”

 _Of course she doesn’t want a marriage_ , Jon thinks, now laying in the bed of furs in his chambers.

_She likely never wants a man to touch her again._

Shadows are dancing on the ceiling from the flickering candle at his bedside, and he remembers the kiss he’d pressed against Sansa’s temple just hours earlier. She’d closed her eyes as he leaned in, her lashes a dark fan against her ivory skin.

Jon sits up and blows out the candle, shuttering the room into darkness.

________________________________________________

 

.

Jon awakes several hours later, his chest heaving and lungs burning. It was death again, slipping into his bed at night like an old friend.

 _So soon?_ He thinks, remembering the last time death trespassed on his sleep, while laying on the ground in the Land of Always Winter just a few months ago.

Jon sits up, scrubbing a hand over his face. He glances out the window; it’s still dark outside, but rest isn’t likely to happen again this night. Ghost lays at the foot of his bed, breathing deeply.  
When Jon steps out of the bed, Ghost’s head pops up, his ears high and his eyes questioning.

“Stay, boy.” Jon says, rubbing between the direwolf’s ears. “At least one of us should sleep tonight.”

Shortly after, Jon leaves his chambers dressed in his gambeson and fur cloak. The Great Keep is quiet, and the halls are sparsely lit. When he steps outside, the chill of the Northern Spring air smarts against his cheek.

In the decade since the Battle of Winterfell, the castle and its many edifices were rebuilt and returned to its former glory. Jon sill remembers the way the barricades of fire just outside the battlements painted the sky crimson as the dead spilled over the walls like sand in an hourglass.

At the entrance to the crypts, Jon is surprised to find the heavy ironwood door open enough to allow someone through. He takes a torch from the wall and heads down the winding stairs, the light from the flame casting lambent shadows against the brick.

When Jon reaches the bottom of the stairwell he sees that the crypt’s torches are already lit along the walls. He finds the statue of Lyanna Stark, her stone eyes appearing to move with the dancing of the flames.

Behind him, Jon hears a bow’s string creak as it becomes taught. “Good thing I didn’t intend to kill you, Jon Snow.”

Jon gives a small smirk as he turns around, immediately recognizing the lilt of the voice at his back.

Her hair is dark, and pulled into a loose half bun. Her face is scarcely illuminated by the torchlight, but Jon recognizes her amber eyes just as easily as he does his own.

She releases her arrow, and it fixes into the ground by Jon’s boot, the sound lazily reverberating through the crypt as if fettered with stone.

Jon laughs, breaking out into a grin and moving toward the woman for an embrace.

“Welcome home, Arya.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I’m a little behind on my writing due to a family emergency at the end of last week. Please be patient with me!
> 
> Thanks again!


	10. Jon

_Jon_

Jon breaks his embrace with Arya, stepping back to take full measure of her.

“I thought you’d be taller.” he says, grinning.

“I thought you would be, too.” Arya returns, laughing. Still just on the cusp of adulthood when they’d parted on the docks of King’s Landing, Arya’s face is free of the creases of time, but bare a few scars in their stead.

“So were you behind this, then?” Jon asks, still smirking a bit.

Arya’s brow furrows in confusion. “Behind what?” She looks around the crypts, then her eyes light up with understanding. “Oh, this?” she asks, gesturing between them.

“You think I had something to do with our return?”

Jon laughs again, but doesn’t deny her questions.

“You still don’t see Sansa for the cunning woman she’s become.” she says, a little incredulously. She chuckles and moves to retrieve the arrow still pinned in the packed dirt of the crypt floor.

Abashed, Jon turns and watches Arya returning the wooden missile to her quiver. “Of course I think she’s clever, Arya.”

Arya’s only reply is to narrow her eyes and purse her lips doubtfully at him as she finishes up her work.

“I do!” Jon repeats loudly. “Sansa has ruled the North with grace and success. She took this castle of ruin and rot and turned it into everything our father- Ned Stark always spoke about.”

Arya’s expression loses some of its harshness. “Ned Stark may not have been your father, but you are and always have been a Stark of Winterfell.”

Jon nods his head, but doesn’t respond.

“She brought us both here.” Arya says quietly. “I hadn’t returned to Winterfell since the day I left for your trial in King’s Landing. She sent ravens, lots of ravens. Some I even replied to. She had a tail following me from the very beginning, a little bird tied to her string. I had to cut that one loose.”

Jon raises his eyebrows, his eyes curious.

“Oh, I didn’t kill him.” Arya laughs.

Jon lets out a huff of air and laughs with her, relieved.

“Even in the lands west of Westeros, it’s frowned upon to murder your own husband.” Arya quips, and she doesn’t wait to see his reaction, heading up the winding stairwell instead.

_____________________________________________

 

At first light the next morning, Jon rises from bed and dresses quickly. His eyes feel bone-dry from little sleep. He’d sat with Arya by the hearth in the common room for a while after they left the crypts.

“And who is this husband?” Jon had asked quizzically, following Arya swiftly up the stairs.

“You’ll meet him in the morning.” she’d replied curtly, not looking behind at him. He’d thought he heard mirth in her voice.

When they reached the hearth, they’d pulled up two simple wooden chairs and sat in front of the fire.

“So what is west of Westeros?” Jon had asked as they sat, only half expecting an answer. Arya had never been one to tell all of her tales, even with him.

“It’s a lot like the places you know. The men who wear the crowns sleep with a dagger in their bed. They’ll rip out your heart and build their castles on your rotting bones. Children are born with the names of people who are mouldering in graves.” Arya said cryptically.

Jon looked at her then, and saw the shadows in her eyes that he hadn’t noticed before. She wasn’t looking at him, but at the flames.

She closed her eyes, as if the light had become too much.

“I saw a lot of things, Jon. Some of those things were beautiful. Some were terrifying. A lot like Westeros, except completely different.” She opens her eyes again, and smiles a little. “I know that’s no answer, but perhaps one day I’ll have the words.”

Jon had nodded silently, and their conversation turned to the Queen of the North once again. They found a jug of ale on a nearby table and poured themselves each a glass.

“She was quite clever, maneuvering us all here again. I don’t think Sansa ever meant to be the only Stark left in Winterfell.” Arya said, and she took a swig.  
“Why do you think we’re here?” Jon had queried, wondering if Arya had an inclination of Sansa’s suspicions of the Three Eyed Raven and Bran.

“Oh, I imagine it has something to do with this.” Arya said, gesturing toward the dagger at her hilt.

Jon’s brow furrowed.“The catspaw?”

She’d looked at him then, and smiled. Jon hadn’t been able to place the expression then, and still couldn’t as he reflects on it after a night’s sleep.

When he’s finished his morning ministrations, Jon opens his chamber door to leave, but stops suddenly when he sees Sansa standing there with her hands crossed behind her.

Her hair is swept up again in its complicated knot, and she wears a gown of deep purple brocade. The crown of wolves is perched atop her head, and it glints in the morning light.

“My Queen,” Jon greets her, bowing deeply

Sansa inclines her head somewhat stiffly, but gives a small smile. “I appreciate the pleasantries, Lord Hand, but I’m afraid we must be quick. The small council convenes this morning, and you’ll need to be introduced.”

“Introduced?” Are these not men who served me when I was King of the North?” Jon asks, a little taken aback. Sansa’s change in attire had signaled a change in the intimacy of their relationship as well. They weren’t Jon and Sansa, but Lord Hand and Queen.

Sansa’s smile disappears, and her face turning serious. “Of course the men and women of the small council have not forgotten who you are. You’ll need to be presented as Hand of the Queen.”

They begin walking down the hallway toward the Great Hall, Jon slightly behind Sansa to indicate his deferred status. After a few steps Sansa stops, and turns.

“We walk together, Lord Hand.” she announces, gesturing for him to step forward.

“My Queen, I don’t think-” he begins, shaking his head.

“We walk _together_.”

When they enter the Great Hall side by side, Jon can feel the eyes of everyone in the room as they settle on the pin on his lapel. Their expressions are puzzled, but not hostile.

Sansa is standing at the high table, as sleek and regal as any she-wolf Jon had ever seen.

“Please sit.” Sansa commands the room, and everyone finds their chair, Jon sitting at her right side.

Sansa, however, remains standing and addresses the room coolly.

“Lords and Ladies of the North, as you know, we have returned Jon Snow to his home here at Winterfell, and we rejoice in this victory.” she asserts, her face a calm mask of confidence.

Jon gives a small, awkward smile, but he maintains a steady gaze toward Sansa.

“I have appointed him as Hand of the Queen, a position that befits the man who sacrificed everything for the North and our people. He will serve us well in the days to come.”

The members of the small council incline their heads in accession, and without further ceremony, Sansa sits at the high table and continues with the typical proceedings. The representatives from each house stand and give a report of the affairs of their keeps, with Sansa making suggestions or bequeathing resources to those that need it.

Jon follows the discussions for some time, but his gaze is averted by movement in the corner of the room. Arya is leaning against a wall, arms crossed and a mischievous smirk on her lips.

Looking back at Sansa, Jon recognizes the exact moment she notices Arya has entered the room as well. Her hands clench, but her face maintains its mask of regal comportment.

Shortly after, the small council is dismissed, but when the Northmen and women turn to leave the room, Arya is no longer there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Admittedly, the burn is even slower than I had originally intended. Haha Stick with me, though. It will happen!
> 
> Thanks for the support, as always.


	11. Sansa

_Sansa_

Sansa feels her insides clench when she spots her Arya in the Great Hall, casually leaning against the wall and smiling as if she hasn’t been absent for years.

When the small council quits the room, Arya has once again disappeared, the commotion giving her sister just enough cover to slip out of the room quietly, with only Jon and Sansa the wiser.

 _She’s less of a wolf, and more of a fox_. Sansa thinks, not unkindly. She watches the last Northman as he exits the Great Hall, then turns to Jon, who is avoiding her gaze.

“Did you know she was here?” Sansa asks accusingly, her face feeling flush.

Jon has the sense to look apologetic, and he takes Sansa’s hand surreptitiously under the high table. He is looking at her earnestly now, and he leans into her.

“I’m sorry, there wasn’t time this morning to tell you. She set upon me in the crypts last night.” he says conspiratorially. His thumb is sweeping back and forth over the top of her hand as he speaks, and Sansa feels her insides clench again, this time not from surprise.

“Well, don’t you two make a pretty picture.”

Sansa turns at the familiar voice behind her, and Arya is standing there with that same impish grin she’d seen just minutes before. Suddenly she is very aware of how warm Jon’s hand is on hers, and she lets calmly breaks his clasp.

“The Wolf Queen and her Wolf Hand.” Arya continues, smile broadening.

Sansa doesn’t reply, but crosses the length of the space between them and embraces Arya fiercely. When the sisters step apart, Sansa feels wetness in the corner of her eye, and she wipes it discreetly.

“I suppose you received my ravens?” Sansa asks, regaining her composure.

Arya laughs quietly. “Yes, I received the ravens. All of the ravens.”

“It’s customary to return them every so often.” Sansa sniffs, but she can’t muster any true anger in the moment. Arya’s return to Winterfell feels not unlike placing the final stitches to a piece of her embroidery; everything is as it should be.

Everything... except for Bran, Sansa thinks.

“Forgive me, my Queen.” Arya jests, bending into a half-hearted bow.

“You don’t have to bow to me, Arya.” Sansa says, a small smile playing at her lips. “You are Lady Stark, after all.”

Arya rolls her eyes, but doesn’t reply; someone has entered the room.

“So I ended up as royalty, anyhow.” The man says, laughing. His chestnut hair is cut short, with a shadow of a beard playing over his face. He saunters up to Arya and puts his arm around her waist.

“Lord Baratheon, I had no idea you were traveling to Winterfell. We haven’t heard from you in _years_.” Sansa says curtly, with emphasis on the last word as her eyes narrow with suspicion.

Gendry and her sister look at each other knowingly. “You haven’t heard from him in years, perhaps since you sent him to follow me to the other side of the world?” Arya challenges, but her eyes are bright with humor.

“Gendry is the little bird, then?” Jon questions behind her. Sansa had nearly forgotten his presence in the room, but she turns and sees surprise on his face.

“Little bird?” Sansa repeats, well and truly confused.

“Yes, Gendry is the little bird.” Arya confirms, chuckling. “My dear queen sister apparently couldn’t trust me to travel without this bastard tailing me along the way. So I made him mine.”

Arya nudges Gendry with her shoulder, and he is unabashedly beaming at her while drawing her closer to his side.

Sansa feels heat staining her cheeks, but Jon brushes past her and embraces the couple heartily, laughing loudly.

He takes Gendry’s hand and shakes it vigorously. “Well met, Gendry. It takes a certain calibre of man to tame this one.” They laugh boisterously.

Sansa is taken aback by the sudden hollowness she feels upon witnessing Arya and Gendry blissful together; something she has never experienced. She finds herself imagining what it would be like to stand beside a man in union with the confidence and trust that her sister and Gendry display.

She remembers the command she’d given Jon just that morning as they prepared to enter the Great Hall.

“We walk _together_.”

Sansa’s thoughts are disturbed by the sound of someone clearing their throat, and suddenly three sets of eyes are looking at her expectantly.

Jon returns by her side. “I suggested that we find somewhere a little more private to discuss our recent findings.” he says quietly.

Sansa gathers wits and gestures to the exit behind her. “Of course, we can convene in my chambers. Arya. Gendry.” she addresses the couple, with a nod of her head and a magnanimous smile. “ I am very pleased to hear of the joining of our houses. Father always meant for the Starks and Baratheons to be in accord. He would be very happy to see the two of you together.”

Gendry gives a small smile in acknowledgement, but Arya’s brow is furrowed in uncertainty.

“What do you mean by ‘recent findings’?”

______________________________________________

 

Some time later, the four sit in Sansa’s chambers with harrowed expressions. Outside the sky is beginning to gray at the edges, reflecting the spirit of the room.

“If Bran doesn’t sit on the throne of Westeros, then who does?” Arya questions, her voice brimming with scarcely controlled emotion. She has the catspaw dagger in her hand, and is turning it absentmindedly.

“The Three Eyed Raven.” Jon murmurs.

Arya stares silently at the dagger, her eyes wide with grief.

“I thought Bran was the Three Eyed Raven?” Gendry says, bewildered.

“No. I fear the true Bran never left from under the weirwood tree beyond the wall.” Sansa replies, and her insides ache with anguish when she says it, even now.

Arya stands up suddenly, one fist clenched at her side and the other still holding the catspaw.

“When you brought me here, I assumed you wanted me to put this dagger in someone. I didn’t realize that someone would be our own _brother_.” She is visibly distraught now, her knuckles turning white.

Sansa’s stomach lurches, and she stands to meet her sister, eyes blazing.

“Of course I don’t mean for you to kill our brother, Arya.” she says evenly, struggling to remain calm.

“What do you mean, then? Arya asks, agony dripping from her voice.

“I-I don’t know. I had hoped that together, the last of the Starks could work together to bring our brother back to the fold. “

Sansa moves to Arya then, taking her fisted hand in her own, then whispers. “When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies…”

Arya turns to look at her sister.

“But the pack survives.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: not my favorite chapter, guys. But I didn’t want to gloss over Arya’s return. It didn’t seem right.
> 
> The next chapter will be more interesting. ;)


	12. Sansa

_Sansa_

Arya and Gendry take their leave shortly after, but Sansa feels suffocated by the lingering tension in the room. When she glances at Jon, he’s sitting by the hearth with his hands clasped at his forehead and his eyes closed.

“She was happier when she wasn’t here.” Sansa admits, her voice strained.

Jon opens his eyes and looks at her. “Arya?” he asks quietly, but with little inflection.

“I shouldn’t have called for her. She and Gendry could have continued their grand adventures all around the world without the truth of our brother between them.”

The words spill out unchecked, and Sansa immediately feels contrite. House Stark had suffered greatly due to the revealed truths of a brother.

Sansa burns, as if the poison of her words had etched a bitter trail in her throat.

Jon has turned away, his thoughts nearly a tangible cloud.

_He’s thinking of me_ , she surmises. _Of promises broken and truths told that made him into a Queenslayer and sent hi_ m to the wall.

Sansa has never regretted her choice to disclose Jon’s parentage to Tyrion, but she has long wondered if Jon spent his days beyond the wall imagining another life where his path had been different. Perhaps a life where he hadn’t trusted Sansa with his Targaryen lineage. Perhaps a life where the Dragon Queen sat on the iron throne, and he slept in her bed.

“She had to know. “ Jon says finally, his voice gruff. “I’ve seen what lies do. They fester and rot everything they touch.”

Sansa feels gutted. Here it is, Jon’s conviction laid bare. He’s still turned away, his face hidden by shadow, but the rigid line of his shoulders speak to his distress, much the way they did that day in the godswood of Winterfell.

Under the heart tree Jon had stood beside Bran and insisted that Sansa and Arya pledge their oaths to keep his unnamed secret.

“I have to tell you something. But I need you to swear you’ll never tell another soul.” he’d pleaded.

Sansa had bristled, envisioning Danaerys with her claws wrapped around Jon’s heart and pulling his strings. “How can we promise to keep a secret if we don’t even know what it is?”

“Because we’re family,” he’d returned quickly, sure of its validity even then.

When Sansa laid her head down that night, she’d felt her sins creep out of the deep, dark recesses of her mind, as if the weight of Jon’s secret had borne them out into existence.

She closed her eyes tight, and pressed her thighs together to still the ache between them.

_Jon Snow is not my brother._

Sansa had made her promises, and then soundly broke them knowing that she risked dire consequences, knowing that it would enrage the Dragon Queen and undermine the hold she had over Jon.

The moment she revealed Jon’s truth to Tyrion, Sansa understood that the ramifications of her choices threatened to rend asunder the tenuous relationship she and Jon had built since Castle Black.

Yet, she’d done what she must because the alternative meant a mad woman with a fire breathing beast would be unleashed over Westeros. There was a chance Jon may never forgive Sansa for breaking her vow, but it was certain that he would never forgive himself for the destruction of the realm.

She looks at Jon, sitting by the hearth in her chambers. Sansa feels it again, all these years later; that uncomfortable, maddening throb in her center. Her cheeks flush with heat, and she has an agonizing urge to lay herself bare to feel the chill of the room against her skin.

“Why her?” she’d asked Tyrion on the battlements of Winterfell, not even pretending to hide her envy.

The echo of those words reverberated through Sansa’s veins for the years that followed, like a steady thrum inside her. It beat with a constant tattoo that only abated on those desperate nights when she allowed herself to sob his name into her pillow.

Jon looks up suddenly, as if he can feel the pull of her thoughts from across the room. Sansa goes to the side table and pours herself a glass of wine, ignoring his gaze. She takes a long drink, willing herself to think of something else, anything else.

“Are you alright?” Jon questions, his eyes full of concern.

Sansa peers at him over the rim of her glass. “Just thirsty,” she murmurs, praying to the Mother that her voice doesn’t quake.

She takes another large drought and sets her glass down with a resounding clink. Jon raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t comment further.

Instead, he stands and moves to the table. A jug of ale sits beside Sansa’s wine.

“I think you’re right, we’ve earned a drink.” he says, pouring ale into a large mug.

Sansa bites her lip to appease its urgent tingle, resolving to gain control of herself.

Jon takes a swig and sets his mug back down. He isn’t looking at Sansa; his mind seems to be elsewhere.

“We’ll have to be smart about this,” Jon finally says. “The Three Eyed Raven can see many things, but he isn’t omnipresent, nor omnipotent. I remember Bran- well, the Three Eyed Raven showing us the mark on his arm that gave the Night King the power to move beyond the wall.”

“Yes. What of it?” Sansa asks, her interest piqued.

Jon turns to her now, his eyes bright.

“He was threatened, Sansa. The Raven orchestrated us all to defend him against the Night King, to protect him at all costs. But Bran is just a crippled boy. The Three Eyed Raven’s power lies in the manipulation of others, and if there’s one thing I have learned about people, it’s that they can’t be trusted to do what’s always expected.”

Jon moves closer, his hands gesturing imploringly.

“Don’t you see? He operates on chance. The Three Eyed Raven may have some ideas about what could be, about how people work and what motivates them. He can use that to provoke certain actions. But in the end, we are masters of our own fate. He can’t force our hand. He can’t swoop down from the trees and peck our eyes out.”

Sansa flinches at the end, as images of her dreams flood in of the Stark boy and his bloodied face.

“Theon died for him.” she finds herself saying. “He stood before the Night King and fell at his hands. Not for Bran, but for that twisted greenseer.”

Sansa feels heartsick remembering Theon on the funeral pyre after the Battle of Winterfell. His ashes were buried in the godswood; she’d taken a shovel to the dirt herself.

Jon puts his hand on her arm, and his grasp is an elixir of warmth against her skin.

“His death wasn’t for naught.” he says reassuringly. “Theon fought bravely for his family, for the North. He earned his redemption.”

Sansa shakes her head, nearly laughing.

“That’s just it, Jon. Theon died bravely protecting Bran, but he didn’t stop the Night King. Arya did. And you were fighting your way through the dead to reach him yourself. If the Three Eyed Raven could see the future with perfect clarity, why would he need so many pawns for his game?”

Jon furrows his brow, but Sansa continues.

“I imagined a mythical, all-powerful being had taken my brother. I imagined the Three Eyed Raven could manipulate the will of those around him and see into the very fabric of time. We would never be able to defeat that. Bran would never be returned to us. But he’s just a man. And every man has his weakness.”

Sansa moves to a table nearby, where a stack of books rest. She’d returned the majority of the manuscripts and tomes to Maester Wolkan’s library, but kept some that had seemed helpful to her search for information about the Three Eyed Raven.

She picks up a book with a red cover, its edges torn and frayed from time.

“It’s a book of riddles.” Sansa explains in response to Jon’s confused expression. “Remember when Robb would bet us our puddings that we couldn’t solve his riddles? He got them from this book. The raven that Meera received reminded me of something I’d heard before, but I couldn’t place where.”

She turns to a page near the end and begins to read out loud.

“How many eyes does Lord Bloodraven have?” she asks solemnly.

She pauses a moment, then nearly whispers its answer.

“ _A thousand eyes, and one_.”

Jon’s eyes grow wide. “Lord Bloodraven?” he asks gravely.

“Do you know of him?” Sansa questions eagerly.

“He was a brother of the Night’s Watch. Lord Commander, in fact. His true name was Brynden Rivers. A bastard Targaryen.”

“If he was Lord Commander, then there must be records of him at Castle Black.” Sansa insists, hopeful for anything that could lead them to the truth of the Three Eyed Raven.

“I imagine so.” Jon says, his eyes hooded in thought.

“Then it’s settled.” Sansa replies, closing the book of riddles resolutely.

“We’re returning to Castle Black.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Okay so I am about to go out of town on vacation for a week starting Friday. I had originally intended to have enough chapters written to continue posting, but the family emergency I had has derailed that. I’ll post another chapter before Friday this week, but then it will be around the 9th or 10th of July until I post again. Please be patient with me. 
> 
> Thanks!


	13. Jon

_Jon_

 

Sansa is looking at him expectantly, her face a mix of desperation and hope. Jon has to steel himself against the way her copper waves and the bloom of redness on her cheeks make her eyes seem like glittering stones amidst a fire.

“We can send an emissary to the Night’s Watch tomorrow.” Jon says, attempting to avoid Sansa’s suggestion that they would be heading to the wall. As much as he wants to find a way to return Bran to Winterfell, Sansa is Queen in the North; the mud and ice of Castle Black is no place for her.

Jon also has no intention of leaving Sansa in Winterfell, vulnerable and alone.

_Not again_.

A skilled negotiator in her own right, Sansa schools her features into a calm, but decisive expression.

“My Lord Hand, I do appreciate your input, but as Queen in the North I do have dominion over _everything in the North_. I’ve been meaning to visit the outlying lands anyhow.”

She’s moving about the room now, gathering items onto a small table nearby.

Jon sighs heavily. “Sansa, be sensible-”

She turns suddenly, brows slanted with determination. “I won’t be leaving the fate of my only living brother to an _emissary_. I’m not a girl anymore, Jon Snow.”

Sansa’s voice lowers, and as she turns back to her work at the table, she says, “Things have changed in the last ten years.”

Jon watches her movements; the way her waist dips and her hips curve, the proud tilt of her chin.

_Yes, things have changed,_ he thinks.

At the Battle of Winterfell, Sansa retreated with Tyrion to the Crypts as the dead slaughtered the living above them. She was young and untrained; she’d done exactly as any highborn lady would in the situation, and none could fault her for it.

Jon surmised that Queen Sansa wouldn’t be making the decision to retreat ever again, however. She’d developed the thick-skin and hardened resolve of one who’d worn the crown for a decade. A horde of giants riding dragons could be at her door, and she’d face them down with nothing so much as her sewing needle.

“Alright,” he concedes. “We’ll travel to Castle Black.”

Sansa turns again, this time with a smirk and a glint.

“I love that you think you had a choice in the matter.”

\-------------------------------------------------------------

The next morning, Sansa and Jon confront Arya and Gendry about their intention to travel to Castle Black.

“What kind of hare-brained, ridiculous idea have you concocted?!” Arya begins, a surprised expression on her face. She’s turned toward Jon, who is biting his lips to keep a sour look from appearing on his mouth.

He inclines his head toward Sansa. “I follow my Queen dutifully,” he says tactfully, while clearly implicating that this particular hair-brained idea belongs to Arya’s red-haired sister, and not himself.

Sansa smiles bitingly at him, not missing the subtle transfer of blame from her Lord Hand.

Arya’s eyes narrow and she turns quickly to face her sister. “So this was your idea, Sansa? Tearing off into the frozen north with nothing to go on but an old riddle book?”

“You’re one to speak about tearing off, Arya.” Sansa retorts tacitly. “ I have a duty to find my brother’s captor-”

“You mean _our_ brother’s captor?” Arya returns, interrupting. “And your duty is here in Winterfell, as Queen in the North. You remember what father always said- a Stark must always be in Winterfell.”

At this, Sansa folds her arms and smiles mischievously. “You’re right, dear sister. A Stark must always be in Winterfell. That’s why I’m commanding that you hold the throne in my stead.”

Jon raises his eyebrows at this; they hadn’t discussed Arya sitting on the throne in Sansa’s absence. The She-Wolf of the North was not without cunning, indeed.

“It’s high time you take your place in this family, Arya.” Sansa continues, but without rancor. She goes to Arya and takes her sister’s hands in her own. “I can’t sit aside and let other people handle this. You understand. You’ve spent your entire life fighting for what you believe in. I believe in this family. Jon and I are on the verge of discovering the truth of the beast who has taken hold over our brother. I won’t sit on this throne while someone else does my bidding.”

Arya’s eyes soften. “The Northmen won’t follow me. I’m not their queen. And I’ve been gone a long time.”

“The North will always be loyal to the Starks. Besides, we won’t be gone forever. Castle Black is hardly on the other side of Westeros.”

Arya smiles a bit, and Sansa brings her in close. Jon feels his body relax and fists unclench, glad their journey would at least begin smoothly.

They discuss the details of their arrangements and travel plans for a while, and then Arya and Gendry depart, leaving Jon and Sansa alone in her chambers.

Sansa’s shoulders visibly loosen, and she nearly plops down into a nearby chair. “We’ll have to send ravens to the other houses. I fear they’ve already begun to return to their keeps after we concluded our small council meeting yesterday.”

“How will they take the news?” Jon asks quietly.

Sansa looks at him from her seat, and for all her strength and power, she appears as just a small girl with the weight of a kingdom on her shoulders. Jon fights the urge to gather her in his arms, and instead sits in a chair beside her.

“They’ll be loyal.” She says again, even if not quite as assuredly as when she’d said it to Arya.

Jon takes her hand in his own, hoping to offer her comfort, but in his haste his knuckles graze her thigh. Though clothed in her typical dark leather gown, he feels the heat of her through the fabric, and it makes his head swim.

He nearly pulls his hand back, but he doesn’t want to startle her. He swallows, forcing himself to think about anything other than the temperature of her leg against him.

When he looks at her again, Sansa is gazing at him from under her lashes with a strange expression, one he has never seen on her.

“We’ll find this Lord Bloodraven,” he finally insists, squeezing her hand and standing to make his leave.

Sansa nods silently, the curious look he’d seen on her face now disappeared behind her queenly mask.

When Jon slips into his bed that evening, he finds himself imagining his lips pressed against an inner thigh with pale, maddeningly soft skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hey, guys. Sorry for the long break. I’ve had a lot of stressful things happening at once and I’m finally in the headspace to get back to writing.
> 
> Thanks for being patient. :)


	14. Jon

_Jon_

 

When Jon, Sansa, and Ghost depart from Winterfell the next morning, the air is chilly and crisp. Their horses are laden with provisions and necessities for their journey to the Night’s Watch, and Sansa sits prettily atop her mount in a dark emerald hooded cloak lined with fur. Jon can’t help but notice the contrast of her auburn tresses and azure eyes against the richness of the green fabric. Her hair is plaited loosely, and the casual air to her garb strikes him in a strange way.

He’d seen her outfitted in gems and silks with her hair piled high and the crown of wolves glinting on her head, but even her usual everyday leather dresses weren’t quite as relaxed as she appeared now. It spoke of an intimacy and trust that they hadn’t shared in many years.

As the wooden gates to the keep creak to a close behind them, a congress of ravens fly overhead. Jon notes Sansa has eased her horse to a slow trot, and he watches her eyes as she follows the birds cresting over the trees and eventually parting, aiming for their separate destinations.

Sansa sighs. “Our messages have been sent. No taking back those ravens.” she says, nudging her horse forward again.

“It’s not too late to turn back, Sansa. We’ve only just begun.” Jon returns, a bit playfully, though he wonders if she regrets this undertaking and leaving Arya in her place at Winterfell.

Sansa turns her nose up to Jon as she spurs her horse ahead of him. “Don’t be ridiculous, Jon Snow. I only worry that you’ve grown a little too old for all these travels.”

Jon guffaws, and matches his stead’s pace with hers. “I’m hardly 5 namedays older than you, _My Queen_.”

Sansa is smiling broadly now, and Jon is a little taken aback by how much less reserved she seems to be outside of the walls of Winterfell. It reminds Jon that every privilege in life is followed by its own complications; as prestigious as the crown can be, the responsibilities that come with it can be suffocating. He’d never wanted it for himself.

While his Targaryen birthright had given Jon the opportunity to sit on the throne, he’d never been able to imagine himself seated there. As a bastard Jon may not have been able to marry a highborn lady or own lands, but he had been free to do as he wished. He’d chosen to take the Black as a boy because it gave him a sense of accomplishment without the fuss of politics and birth names. At Castle Black none of that mattered; he could just be Jon Snow, and that had been enough.

The mantle of great responsibility had followed him, however. No matter how hard he tried to avoid it.

“How long has it been since you’ve allowed yourself a moment to breathe?” Jon asks, dampening the moment a little.

Sansa is looking ahead at the path, the sound of horse’s hooves clopping with a steady rhythm between them. Her smile sags.

“Sometimes it’s not as simple as all that.” she responds vaguely, her gaze still forward.

“So, I take that to mean never.” Jon concludes, though not harshly.

Sansa shakes her head exasperatedly, and pushes her mount ahead again. “Come along, old man!” she calls flippantly. “We’ve many miles between us and the edge of the world.”

____________________________________

 

Jon and Sansa ride the Queen’s road until they eventually pass into Wolfswood later that evening. They make camp near a stream and eat a small meal of bread, cheese, and dried meat they’d taken from the kitchens at Winterfell.

Afterward, Jon is absentmindedly petting Ghost’s head as he rests beside him. As the fire they’d built picks up, Sansa removes her heavy cloak and sets it beside her. Jon sees that she isn't wearing a typical riding dress, but a tailored dark leather tunic with an intricate wolf insignia, fitted breeches, and tall riding boots.

When she notices Jon’s curious looks, Sansa’s cheeks color a bit. “Arya shared her clothes with me. We added some extra fabric for length. A lot of extra fabric. I couldn’t very well go riding for weeks in a gown and heels.”

“I-I think it’s very nice.” Jon fumbles out, feeling like a fool. He’d never seen Sansa clothed in such a way, with her curves so accentuated; her legs seemed to go on forever. He didn’t think he’d ever seen the shape of them so clearly.

The trees rustle and Jon hears a crow’s scream in the distance. Sansa’s eyes widen, her lips parted in a small “O”.

He jumps up and turns to look behind him and Ghost rises to attention, a growl rumbling in his throat.

“What is it?” Jon questions her hurriedly, thinking she’d seen something lurking behind him in the darkness. He’s peering around wildly, his hand on the hilt of his sword.

Sansa stands up as well, looking abashed.. “That crow. It’s just that I’ve been dreaming about...well, it doesn’t matter.”

She sits back down, and seems embarrassed. The light from the fire casts a warm glow on her cheeks, and her hair has become a golden shroud over her shoulders. A woman in Sansa’s position can’t afford to appear vulnerable, or else she risks a loss in confidence.

Jon sits as well, but doesn’t take his hand from the hilt at his side. Ghost relaxes, but remains alert. Sansa is avoiding his gaze, instead looking into the flickering flames. Her lips are pursed, and her eyes are lost in thought.

“Dreams?” Jon asks, breaking the silence. He doesn’t want to embarrass her further, but he’s quite interested to hear about Sansa’s dreams. Old Nan had always encouraged them to take heed of the things they’d seen in their sleep, for it often mirrored the truth.

Sansa closes her eyes a moment, and then responds quietly. “Yes, dreams. I’ve been dreaming about...well, crows. Many crows. Cawing and screaming at me. It’s not always the same one; sometimes things change. Sometimes…”

She pauses then, and takes a deep breath. “Sometimes I dream they are attacking a small boy. A boy wearing Stark clothing.”

She shakes her head and laughs faintly, though perhaps not sincerely. “It’s nothing. I’m just being silly. I’ve always been prone to nightmares, even as a girl.”

Jon moves to her, sitting on a fallen log she’d perched on near the fire. “Of course you’ve dreamt of crows. The Three Eyed Raven has been haunting your thoughts for many months. The Stark boy could be anyone. Robb, Theon, Bran, even Ned-”

“You?” Sansa interrupts, her voice barely above a whisper.

Jon wasn’t sure how to respond. He was sitting so close to her that he could smell the lemon and citrus fragrance from her hair, and it was intoxicating.

And yet…

_Does she still see me as a Stark boy?_

_Her bastard brother?_

Suddenly feeling uncomfortable with his thoughts, Jon goes to his horse and gathers their bedrolls.

“We’d better try to get some sleep.” he says somberly. “We’ll need to be back on the road at daybreak.”

They sleep on opposite sides of the fire, and Jon directs Ghost to lay near Sansa to keep her warm throughout the night.

He only briefly imagines it being himself with the privilege of that task.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thanks for the kind words about my absence, I really appreciate your understanding.
> 
> Reviews are awesome, I love hearing your thoughts and reactions!


	15. Sansa

Sansa

When Sansa awakes, silver moonlight spills through the trees of Wolfswood; it’s morning, but only just. Although she’d fallen asleep easily, exhausted from their first day’s ride toward the broken wall, she’d tossed and turned throughout the night. In truth, she’d had few occasions over the last ten years to sleep so close to the ground, and the chill of the bitter cold earth seeped through her thin bedroll with no regard to her name or crown. It was certainly humbling.

As Queen, she’d visited the Northern houses several times over the years. Traveling in a carriage with an entourage was unquestionably more accommodating than her current circumstances, but Sansa hadn’t wanted a squadron of guards and maidservants on this journey. She and Jon agreed from the outset that anonymity would be of utmost importance.

“I could darken my hair, as I did when I was Alayne Stone-”

“No!” Jon had said quickly, seeming quite horrified by her proposal. “ I mean, no. That won’t be necessary. If we encounter anyone, raise your cloak’s hood and allow me to speak. If we find that the Queen’s road is busy with travelers, we can take another path.”

Across the waning fire, she can hear Jon’s gentle, but deep breathing.

 _He’s not having any trouble sleeping_ , Sansa thinks a little unkindly.

She suddenly remembers the princess in one of Old Nan’s stories who’d been unable to sleep due to a pea under twenty mattresses, and feels foolish. Jon had slept in similar conditions without complaint for years beyond the wall. She could manage this.

Sansa hunkers down next to Ghost feeling quite thankful for the direwolf’s warmth, but soon daylight begins to break through the trees and she abandons hope of further sleep.

Signing, Sansa leaves her bedroll and goes to the stream nearby. She splashes cool water over her face and releases her hair from its plait, combing through the strands with her fingers. She’s brought a small but various assortment of fragranced soaps with her, hoping to keep some semblance of cleanliness while on the road.

Sansa quickly and determinedly removes her outer layer of clothing and uses a cloth with a small amount of soap to wash as thoroughly as she can while still wearing smallclothes. After she’s finished her tasks, she redresses and returns to camp feeling somewhat refreshed.

Jon is awake, stoking the fire. He glances up at her, and his expression is dark.

“It would be wise not to wander off alone in the woods, Sansa.” Jon admonishes, appearing perturbed.

Heat slithers down her neck; she isn’t sure if it’s from anger. Hearing her given name spoken in such an aggressively familiar manner was at once unnerving and satisfying.

She hadn’t realized how much she’d yearned to just be Sansa again. To shed her crown and bare herself to someone.

“I do beg your pardon, Lord Hand. You’ll have to forgive me for assuming I’d be allowed a moment of privacy.” Sansa retorts, pushing away thoughts of Jon’s gravelly, deep voice whispering her name against her throat.

She begins gathering her bedroll and personal items to pack away for the day’s ride. Jon stands abruptly, but doesn’t offer an apology. Sansa wonders at his peculiar behavior, but doesn’t comment on it as they mount their horses and nudge them forward. They continue in silence and break their fast with some dried berries and nuts.

The day passes slowly; the trees seemed to blend together, a blur of leaves and twisting trunks. The clop of horse’s hooves are a rhythmic tattoo amidst the sounds of the forest and the cacophony of animals who live there.

By midday it becomes apparent to Sansa that Jon is avoiding her gaze. His shoulders are tight, his neck is stiff, and he is staring ahead stoically.

“Remember that story Old Nan always told us before she tucked us in?” Sansa begins, breaking the silence between them. “The one about the evil spirits that can overtake you if you don’t pray to the Mother before you go to sleep at night?”

Finally turning to look at her with furrowed brows, Jon replies quietly. “Old Nan never tucked me in.”

“Oh.” Sansa manages, feeling sheepish. Of course Old Nan never tucked him in at night; she likely only did that for her and Arya.

Jon is looking at her curiously now, expecting an explanation for her absurd outburst.

“Well, I only mentioned it because I assumed you forgot to say your prayers last night.” Sansa says in a huff, attempting to hide the pink tinge blooming on her cheeks.

“My prayers?” Jon nearly exclaims, eyebrows furrowing even deeper.

“Yes, the absence of your prayers would explain why you are behaving so strangely this afternoon.” Sansa says curtly, keeping her eyes straight ahead. “Because you’ve been taken by an evil spirit.” She finishes half-heartedly, aware that her joke has landed somewhat feeblily.

Jon looks at her a moment and then bursts into laughter, nearly bringing his horse to a halt.

“I’m sorry, Sansa.” He says finally. “When I awoke this morning, you weren’t there. This forest is full of creatures, hunters...”

“Hunters? Jon, this is the North, our home. No Northman would dare harm a woman.” Sansa says incredulously.

Jon looks away again, an angry expression on his face. “It’s admirable that you believe the best of your men. But a beautiful woman bathing half-naked in the middle of the woods is a near impossible sight to ignore. Any man who happened by might have seen you and-”

A wave of shock hits Sansa with a sudden, brute force.

_He’d seen her._

Jon continues rambling on about the importance of being cautious, not realizing he’d given himself away. Sansa frantically tries to remember everything she’d done by the stream, how indecent had she really been?

Her face is hot with embarrassment.

Ever the virtuous guardian, Jon had likely tried to find her this morning when he’d awoken to find her bedroll empty. When he discovered her by the stream, his first thought had been to scold her for tempting fate and the random passerby with the sight of her in her underclothes.

Of course, _he_ hadn’t been tempted.

Just angry. Concerned. Worried.

When Sansa and Jon stop to make camp again that evening, she takes out a flagon of wine they’d packed and takes several swigs.

Jon notices and peers at her from across the crackling fire, but doesn’t remark on it.

 _He’s so unmoved_ , she finds herself thinking.

_A man of ice and stone._

After several more pulls from the flagon, Sansa begins to feel her skin tingle and her insides thrum. How long had it been since Jon laid with a woman? Had the death of the dragon Queen extinguished that need for him?

Sansa had never laid with a man for pleasure.

She’d heard the maidservants whispering about it since she was a girl. She’d heard about the things that men could do with their mouth and hands and teeth.

Sometimes she’d sink into the bed and let herself imagine what that would be like.

Sansa takes another gratuitous gulp and stares into the fire, wondering how close Jon would need to be to the heat of it before he started to melt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Let me know what you think. Reviews are everything!


	16. Jon

_Jon_

 

Jon lays awake on is bedroll, his arms crossed behind his head. A pack of wolves howl in the distance, and Ghost perks up his ears, alert. The sounds of the pack eventually wither away as they move farther from camp, and the direwolf relaxes and resumes his restful position beside Sansa.

She’s breathing heavily, an empty flagon of wine beside her head. Jon realized earlier in the evening that she’d been behaving strangely since this afternoon. It almost seemed as if she were glaring at him from across the fire as she took somewhat... _aggressive_ gulps of wine.

He had no right to find her glittering eyes as beautiful as he did.

He had no right to want to taste the wine on her lips, either.

Sansa, his half-sister.

Sansa, his cousin.

Sansa, Queen in the North.

The space between them seemed to span more than just a fire in the forest; it was a chasm so wide he could hardly see the other side.

Jon was a bastard boy, a queen-slayer, a man who’d spent the last decade running from his demons out in the barren land beyond the broken wall.

Who was he to want to cross that divide?

When he’d seen Sansa washing at the stream, Jon had forced himself to look away quickly, as if stung. He could still see her when he closed his eyes; the way her hips dipped and the pale skin of her back contrasted the dark of the treeline. It was burned there, the way lightening etches scars against the night sky.

Jon tossed and turned on his bedroll, fighting the image of Sansa in her underclothes from searing the back of his eyelids.

When he finally dreamt that night, it was of a white bloom in a garden of decay. He wanted to pluck it, to feel the softness of its petals in his hand. No matter how much he tried, he couldn’t get close enough.

He’d never be close enough.

_________________________________________

The days that proceeded on the Queensroad passed uneventfully. Jon and Sansa made good progress, riding steady during the day and making camp just long enough to rest in the evening. The farther North they ventured, the colder it became. A deep chill settled over them at night that neither of them could shake with just their travelling clothes and cloaks.

They were halfway to Castle Black; to the west lay the towering frozen mountainside, to the east lay the Last Hearth.

It was midday. Jon and Sansa had just finished the last of the food stores they’d taken from Winterfell, a meager meal of dried meats and stale bread. The horse’s plodding hooves beat a leaden tempo against the frozen ground.

“I’ll have to hunt for our dinner.” Jon says, breaking the silence between them.

“Mmm. I could really go for some of Old Nan’s rabbit stew.” Sansa replies boisterously, a smile in her eyes. She closes them and bites her lip playfully, as if savoring the mere thought of the stew on her tongue.

_Fucking hell_ , Jon curses.

The journey may have passed unremarkably the last fortnight, but Sansa’s demeanor certainly bore some marked change.

He’d noticed her brushing up against him more often; just last night she’d leaned over his shoulder to grab the water canteen beside him when she could just as easily have moved around him. Her unbound hair had fallen over her back like a copper wave as she bent down, and he’d momentarily imagined what it would be like to wrap a tendril around his finger.

“Thanks,” she’d nearly whispered, her voice a soft tremor near his ear. Jon had just nodded his head curtly, not trusting himself to speak. As she sat across from him and sipped from the flask, she had what he swore to be a mischievous grin on her lips.

_She’s trying to drive me mad_ , he thinks, scrubbing a hand down over his face.

Sansa Stark, Queen in the North, sovereign over everything covered by snow was playing cheeky with him, and it was going to send him to an early grave.

_Again_.

Jon ignores her remark about the rabbit stew, and nudges his mount a little forward, trying to keep the flame-haired woman out of his peripheral vision.

When they make camp that evening and Jon returns from his hunt with two generous sized hares, Sansa gleams up at him.

_Fucking hell_ , he thinks again.

Jon skins and cleans his catch, then roasts them over the flames. After she eats, Sansa licks her fingers like some sort of wanton barmaid, and Jon nearly chokes on the food in his mouth.

“I’m starting to worry that all this time on the road isn’t good for someone in your...station.” Jon grounds out, tearing his eyes from her mouth.  
She stops her ministrations suddenly, and bristles. “You’ll have to forgive my manners, Lord Hand. I’ve been subsisting on dehydrated meat and old bread for nigh on a fortnight. I haven’t had a hot meal in ages. Next time shall I wipe my hands on your pant leg?”

Without waiting for an answer, she tosses her leftover rabbit bones to Ghost and leaves the fire to remove her bedroll from her horse’s pack, then loudly and brusquely throws it to the ground. She drags her cloak over herself and closes her eyes.

“I suppose it would only be fitting for the Queen in the North to die of exposure.” Sansa says, after several moments of silence. She sits up and looks at him, her eyes narrowed.

“Do you know what they call me behind my back? _Ice Queen_. I don’t think they mean to be horrible about it. Maybe it’s even a little truthful.” She admits quietly. “But it still stings.”

“Ice Queen?” Jon asks, truly bewildered.

How could anyone look at her, the mantle of burnished hair that framed rosy cheeks and pursed lips that were as ripe as a cherry, and think of ice and cold? Sansa was all heat, and molten, fiery, life that made him absolutely _burn_ the closer she got near.

Sansa nods her head a little sadly. “Yes. And if that’s what they call me, I can only imagine the names they’ve come up with for _you_.”

Jon barks out an unexpected laugh, surprised by her words. “What do you mean?” he quizzes, really unsure of the direction this conversation is going.

“Why, if I’m the Ice Queen, you’d have to be what...a White Walker? I may be a little hard to reach, but you are immovable. Like a pillar of stone. Sometimes I think you were born of it.”

Sansa is gazing at him earnestly now, searching for something in his eyes.

“It’s quite a good thing The Three Eyed Raven chose Bran as his Stark boy to manipulate.” She says quietly. “I’m afraid if he’d chosen you, there wouldn’t have been much left to work with once Danaerys used you up.”

With that Sansa lays down again and turns over, her back to Jon and Ghost curled up against her.

Not for the first time that day, Jon is only capable of one, singular thought as he lays down on his own bedroll to sleep.

_Fucking hell._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Jon. :D 
> 
> Let me know what you think, I love reviews!


	17. Sansa

_Sansa_

When Sansa awakes the next morning, she has a keen sense of embarrassment for the bitter words she’d spoken towards Jon the night before. She’d been uncouth and harsh, dredging up old, sodden memories of the Mad Queen and their relationship.

Yet, Sansa couldn’t regret it. She’d said what needed saying. Jon had spent the last decade mourning Danaerys’ death and his choices in the war, and it had sucked the very life out of him. He was stumbling around aimlessly, not unlike a reanimated wight; covering a lot of ground, but not really living.

Sansa had spent the last fortnight attempting to entice any sort of reaction from him that she possibly could. While she wouldn’t describe him as frigid or completely unfeeling, she’d noticed that anytime she drew too near, a mask of stony indifference slipped over him. It made her realize something entirely too important to ignore.

It wasn’t that Jon couldn’t feel, it was that he didn’t _want_ to.

Jon had spent his entire life taking the moral high ground. He’d guarded the realms of men and made sacrifices for the greater good, even when it was to his detriment. He’d lived in the barren wasteland of the North for a decade because doing so meant peace for a kingdom warring with itself.

He’d put the dagger in the Dragon Queen’s belly.

Sansa had no doubts that Jon believed himself undeserving of pleasure for the sake of pleasure. He was serving himself penance for mistakes he’d had no right to bear to begin with.

When Sansa first rode into Castle Black disheveled and broken all those years ago, Jon had taken her in his arms and put her pieces back together. She’d felt something then, something she couldn’t allow herself to give name to. Something she could hardly let herself even acknowledge.

Until the moment he’d shared the secret of his parentage, Sansa had suppressed even the merest thought of how it made her feel when Jon embraced her, or pressed her lips against her forehead, or the way he smelled of leather and crisp, fresh snow.

The way he made her breathing shallow and heat pool in her center.

It had been like a floodgate opening; a wave of black, rushing water that overwhelmed and consumed her.

_Jon Snow is not my bastard brother._

_Jon Snow is the Dragon Queen’s lover._

Those conflicting thoughts had at once arrested and deflated Sansa. In the years that passed, it hadn’t waned- Jon still made her body flush with deliciously uncomfortable warmth, and Danaerys Targaryen still stood between them like a rotting corpse of guilt and regret.

When he returned to Winterfell just a few months ago, Sansa had felt the unspoken tension between them grow as taught as a bow string. It was eager to snap, to release its stifled energy.

It only needed some motivation. Perhaps throwing looks from under her lashes and brushing up against him hadn’t been quite enough.

Sansa had never been one to accept defeat easily.

She certainly wouldn’t be starting today.

_________________________________________

Jon and Sansa continue their journey on the Queensroad in an uncomfortable silence until the sun begins to slip over the mountains and dusk settles about them. They find a suitable place to make camp and Jon begins gathering dry brush for a fire.

Sansa had noticed the way the clouds seemed to hang heavily in the sky that day, and felt the deepening of the chill in the air.

“There will be snow soon.” she says quietly, watching Jon arrange firewood in a pile.

He doesn’t look up from his work, but responds with a simple, “Yes.”

His voice is deep and guttural, and its rough timbre is like a flame to Sansa’s wick. She takes a deep breath, and continues on.

“The temperature is going to drop, I can feel it already. I’m not sure how much warmth Ghost is going to be able to provide when that happens.”

Jon stops his rummaging and looks up at Sansa a little warily. “We’ve several miles before we reach any shelter. We may be able to find some abandoned old buildings in The Gift, but it will be a few days before we reach them.”

“I’m quite aware of the lay of this land, Jon.” Sansa replies curtly, a little perturbed by his clipped tone. She stands up suddenly and straightens her neck, ready to surrender her plain to failure.

 _Damned stubborn man,_ she curses as she begins to turn away.

Before she can leave, Jon grabs her ungloved hand in his own. The heat of his palm ignites her instantly, sending waves of heat down her spine.

“When the snows fall, we’ll have to sleep closer,” he intones ominously, his voice once again resonating within her.

 _Is that so?_ Sansa bites her lip to keep a smile from breaking through.

“Closer together?” she asks lightly, urging herself to keep an innocent tone in her voice.

“Yes,” he responds quite seriously, his hand still clasping hers. “Body warmth will be necessary to fight off the cold. I’ve seen men perish of it.”

Sansa wasn’t sure if she should feel offended that Jon assumed she didn’t understand how freezing temperatures would affect a living being, but she bites her lip again to keep her mouth from speaking words she may regret, then squeezes his hand a little.

“I understand. You’ll have to do your duty as my Lord Hand and keep me from the brink of death. The North is forever grateful for your service to their Queen.”

Jon quirks his head a little at that response.

_Damnit, Sansa._

She slips her hand from Jon’s grasp quickly, and sets herself to finishing Jon’s attempt at arranging the fire pit. “Perhaps the snows will hold off,” she says brightly.

Jon watches her curiously for a moment, then joins her by woodpile. He removes a piece of flint from his pocket, strikes it with a stone near the brush, and watches as the sparks ignite.

As the fire grows, Jon and Sansa step away on separate sides of the flames. They flicker and crackle gently, and Sansa finds herself gazing into its warmth for several moments as her thoughts drift. When she finally looks up again, she catches Jon’s gaze from across the blaze.

She isn’t sure if the heat in his eyes in just a reflection of the fire, or something else altogether.

______________________________________

When Sansa awakes later that evening, it’s to the feeling of ice pricking her cheeks. She sits up on her bedroll, surveying the area. A light dusting of soft snow glitters around her and all over the ground.

She’s trembling.

  
Perhaps not completely from the cold.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I’m predicting rising temps next chapter, wink wink wink.
> 
> :D


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